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ROD  SERLING’S 


DGHT 


NEW  JOURNEYS 
OF  THE  IMAGINATION 
...  IN  THE  TRADITION 
OF  THE  CLASSIC 
TELEVISION  SERIES 


MAGAZINE 


OCTOBER  1981/ $2 


71896  48882 


ORIGINAL  FICTION:  MONSTERS  IN  MISSISSIPPI! 

SHOOTOUT  IN  THE  TOY  SHOP'  ‘THE  BEAST  WITHIN’ 

BY  ROBERT  SHECKLEY  FULL-COLOR  FILM  PREVIEW 
‘OUT  OF  PLACE'  ' 

BY  PAMELA  SARGENT  ‘THE  BIG  TALL  WISH’ 

'THE  TEAR  COLLECTOR'  CLASSIC  SERLING  SCRIPT 

BY  DONALD  OLSON 

PLUS  SIX  MORE  NEW  TALES  THEODORE  STURGEON 

ON  BOOKS 

SHOW-BY-SHOW  GUIDE  GAHAN  WILSON 
TO  TV’S  ‘TWILIGHT  ZONE’  ON  MOVIES 


EXCLUSIVE  INTERVIEW: 

RICHARD  MATHESON 
SURVEYS  HIS  POE  FILMS 
AND  THE  HORROR  SCENE 


■THE  GREAT  ELVIS  PRESLEY 
LOOKALIKE  MURDER  MYSTERY 


OFFICES’  BY  CHETWILLIAMSON 


F LOT 

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t^W^RODSERLING’S 

IBIJGHT 


PNE 


FEATURES 


October  1981 


In  the  Twilight  Zone 

4 

Other  Dimensions:  Books 

Theodore  Sturgeon 

6 

Other  Dimensions;  Screen 

Gahan  Wilson 

10 

TZ  Interview:  Richard  Matheson  (Part  Two) 

James  H.  Bums 

14 

Screen  Preview:‘The  Beast  Within’ 

Robert  Martin 

51 

Dr.  Van  Helsing’s  Handy  Guide  to  Ghost  Stories:  Part  Three 

Kurt  Van  Helsing 

56 

Show-by-Show  Guide  to  TV’s  ‘Twilight  Zone’:  Part  Seven 

Marc  Scott  Zicree 

86 

TZ  Classic  Teleplay:  ‘The  Big,  Tall  Wish’ 

Rod  Serling 

92 

FICTION 

Out  of  Place 

Pamela  Sargent 

22 

Shootout  in  the  Toy  Shop 

Robert  Sheckley 

28 

Zeke 

Timothy  Robert  Sullivan 

32 

The  Burden  of  Indigo 

Gene  O’Neill 

40 

Sea  Change 

George  Clayton  Johnson 

47 

Offices 

Chet  Williamson 

61 

The  Tear  Collectoi’ 

Donald  Olson 

66 

The  Great  Elvis  Presley  Look-Alike  Murder  Mystery 

Mick  Farren 

72 

Paintjob 

0 Jay  Rothbell 

80 

IL  N T ' H T L J G 

Wonders 
never  cease  . . . 


I Olson  Sullivan  Rothbell  Farren 


In  this  issue  we  welcome  back 
: two  distinguished  guests,  ROBERT 
I SHECKLEY  and  GEORGE  CLAYTON 
I JOHNSON,  the  one  contributing  a 
private-eye  yarfi  that  makes  a sharp 
; excursion  into  fantasy,  the  other  a 
' blood-curdling  saga  of  the  deep  that 
was  originally  penned  with  the  Tun- 
; light  Zone  tv  series  in  mind.  It  was 
I deemed  too  gruesome  for  family  view- 
I ing  in  the  early  1960s,  but  works 
marvelously  for  our  magazine  today. 

Johnson  can  be  found,  at  present, 

, in  Outre  House’s  Writing  for  The 
I Tvjilight  Zone,  which  reprints  a 
■ quartet  of  his  celebrated  TZ  scripts. 

I Sheckley,  now  busy  with  a new  novel, 
turns  up  frequently  in  Omni  (he’s  form- 
I er  fiction  editor),  providing  dependa- 
' bly  imaginative  prose  to  accompany 
. the  magazine’s  picture  sections.  In  a 
. recent  piece  called  “Tour  of  the 
Universe,’’  inspired  by  a collection  of 
; space  paintings,  he  dreamed  up  such 
j wonders  as  Addier’s  Planet,  “where 
I time  oscillates  across  a two-hour  span, 
i making  everyone  late  for  work,’’  as 
well  as  a vanished  extraterrestrial  race 
“so  alien  they  didn’t  possess  the 
: numbers  9 through  72.” 

\ Wonders  never  cease.  Here  on 
Earth  we’ve  got  a plague  of  talking 
I animals  (who  turn  out  to  be  mankind’s 
; most  articulate  critics)  in  Out  of  Pluce 
I by  PAMELA  SARGENT,  one  of 
I science  fiction’s  most  consistently  in- 
I teresting  young  novelists  {Cloned 
j Lives,  Watchstar)  and  editors  (the 
Women  of  Wonder  series).  Two  more 
novels.  The  Golden  Space  and  The 
Alien  Upstairs,  are  due  out  in  1982.  In 
this  issue  she  takes  her  epigraph  from 

4 


i Roethke,  but  a more  appropriate 
i source  might  be  Robert  Burns’s  “To  a 
I Louse,”  dialect  notwithstanding:  “Oh 
I wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us  / To 
i see  oursels  as  others  see  us!” 

But  what  if  others  see  us  when 
I we’re  not  actually  there?  CHET 
j WILLIAMSON  addresses  this  vital 
I question  in  Offices,  his  first  profes- 
^ sionally  published  fiction.  Williamson, 
; a former  schoolteacher  and  actor,  now 
j works  in  an  office  himself,  producing 
; industrial  theater  for  business  conven- 
j tions.  As  a member  in  good  standing  of 
j the  Esoteric  Order  of  Dagon,  a small 
circle  of  H.  P.  Lovecraft  devotees,  each 
of  whom  publishes  his  own  newsletter, 
he  wrote  recently:  “It’s  a rare  horror 
j tale  that  doesn’t  make  one  think  of  a 
1 story  read  previously.  . . . Another 
i problem  with  some ...  is  that  they 
1 don’t  say  anything.  They’re  content  to 
I jump  out  and  yell  boo  at  the  reader. 

I Once  the  initial  chill  has  faded,  there  is 
I nothing  left.”  We’re  pleased  to  report 
j that  Williamson’s  own  tale  is  one  of  the 
! rare  ones,  adroitly  defying  both  gen- 
eralizations. 

, Speaking  of  originals,  DONALD 
: OLSON,  in  The  Tear  Collector,  ap- 
pears to  have  invented  an  entirely  new 
fetish  (which,  in  today’s  world,  is  no 
small  accomplishment).  Bom,  raised, 
and  still  living  in  Jamestown,  New 
York,  on  the  shores  of  beautiful  Chau- 
tauqua Lake,  Olson  has  written  dozens 
of  equally  odd  stories,  as  well  as  such 
suspense  novels  as  If  I Don’t  Tell  and 
Sleep  Before  Evening.  He  confeses, 
however,  that  he  leads  a life  much  less 
exciting  than  those  he  likes  to  write 
about. 


H T To  N E 


I 


j 


i 


I 


t 


After  living  in  such  disparate  ■ 
climes  as  Maine  (where  he  was  bom)  I 
and  California,  TIMOTHY  ROBERT  | 
SULLIVAN  now  makes  his  home  in  i 
South  Florida,  the  setting  of  his  extra-  ! 
ordinarily  touching  story,  Zeke.  An-  ; 
thologized  in  Unearth,  Chrysalis,  and  ' 
New  Dimensions,  Sullivan  describes  ; 
himself  as  “a  physical  fitness  nut  and 
fresh  air  fiend”  who’s  often  seen  jog- 
ging at  two  or  th  ree  in  the  morning  (but 
also,  presumably,  by  day).  When  we 
last  saw  him  he  was  tanned,  muscular, 
and  had  shoulders  as  wide  as  Route  31 
(where  Zeke,  incidentally,  begins). 

GENE  O’NEILL  spins  another  | 
moving  story  in  TheBurdjen  of  Indigo,  a I 
sui  generis  melange  of  sf,  fable,  and  i 
dream.  O’Neill  has  worked  throughout 
California  and  the  Southwest  as  a geol- 
ogist, phys.  ed.  teacher,  military  con- 
tractor, and  more— “a  rich  and  varied  ; 
background,”  as  he  enjoys  putting  it— 
but  his  real  love  is  writing,  especially  i 
children’s  stories  and  fantasy.  ! 

In  Paint  job,  JAY  ROTHBELL  i 
adds  what  may  v/ell  be  a new  chapter  in  , 
landlord-tenant  relations.  She  has 
already  appeared,  by  her  own  count,  in  . 
nine  literary  magazines,  five  poetry  an-  ; 
thologies,  one  textbook,  and  eleven  ' 
newspapers,  to  say  nothing  of  Screw  I 
and  the  National  Lampoon.  Her  list  of  i 
previously  held  jobs  is  so  long  and  | 
bizarre  that  we’ll  save  it  for  the  next  | 
time  she  appears;  in  these  humbler,  less  ; 
flamboyant  pages. 

MICK  FARREN-he’s  the  one  , 
with  the  earring— started  out  as  a rock  i 
musician  in  his  native  London,  but  he’s 
now  writing  sf  novels  and  rock  criti-  i 
cism  in  lower  Manhattan,  where  he  : 
lives  with  his  wife  and  four  cats.  The  i 
first  of  his  six  novels.  The  Texts  of  . 
Festival,  depicted  a post-Bomb  Britain  j 
plunged  into  a new  Dark  Ages  (shades  | 
of  Riddley  Walker)  with  peasants  ' 
quoting  Holy  Writ-the  words  of  Jag-  j 
ger,  Dylan,  and  Morrison.  Now,  in  TZ,  i 
Farren  adds  Presley  to  his  list.  i 

Over  the  past  few  months  you  may  J 
have  noticed  an  improvement  in  the  ' 
photographs  accompanying  our  Tvji-  \ 
light  Zone  scripts  and  the  Show-by-  j 
Show  Guide;  no  longer  are  we  forced  to 
rely  exclusively  upon  publicity  stills. 
For  this  we  have  the  Ithaca  College 
School  of  Commimications  to  thank.  Its 
dean  and  students  have  carefully 
screened  the  films  in  the  college’s  Ser- 
ling  Archives,  reproducing  the  most 
dramatic,  informative  shots— and  all, 
dear  reader,  for  you. 

— TK 


Photo  credits:  Farren/Morcla  Resnlck:  Sullivan/Jeff  Schalles;  Sargent/Georoo  Zobrowski,  Johnson/Mark  Scott  Zicroo 


Publisher’s 

Note 


Now  that  we’ve  been  around  for  six  months  or  so,  I felt  it  was  time  to  pass 
a few  more  thoughts  on  to  you.  First  of  all,  thanks  for  your  many  letters  of 
congratulations  and  g'ood  wishes.  We  haven’t  started  a “Letters”  column  yet, 
but  I’d  like  to  quote  just  a few; 

Frankly,  I read  the  first  issue  with  some  trepidation,  fearful  of  what 
might  happen  when  those  other  than  Rod  attempted  to  walk  on  the 
magic  water.  Yet  1 need  not  have  worried.  As  the  premiere  issue  and 
subsequent  ones  have  shown.  'Twilight  Zone  magazine  is  as  handsomely 
done  as  if  Rod  had  done  it  himself. 

And  this  from  the  mother  of  a young  man  who  gets  up  at  five  A.M.  to  watch 
Twilight  Zone  on  television  (quoting  her  son): 

"Mom,  the  tv  show  was  so  long  ago  and  I just  found  out  about  it  and 
started  watching  it  and  collecting  stuff  about  it,  and  now  all  of  a sud- 
den they  came  out  with  the  TZ  magazine  . . . I feel  like  I’m  in  the 
Twilight  Zone.  ” Thanks  for  giving  my  son  something  special  to  look 
forward  to  every  month.  Keep  up  the  good  work! 

And  from  a man  who  started  a new  business: 

The  nature  of  the  i'nieiness  was  easy  for  me  to  determine,  but  the  name 
of  my  business  required  careful  consideration.  I wanted  a name  that 
means  something  Iwautiful  and  that  would  project  happiness.  My  first 
theught,  and  the  only  one  that  fit  my  requirements,  was  a name  and  a 
place  right  in  the  Twilight  Zone  — Willoughby,  a town  of  the  past. 

And  finally: 

Rod  not  only  saw  mankind  for  what  it  was,  but  he  dared  to  envision 
what  it  could  be,  if  only  we  would  look  to  the  light  in  the  black,  the 
basic  decency  and  compassion  that  is  within  us  all,  if  we  would  only 
recognize  it.  He  told  us,  straight  and  honestly,  we  all  come  from  the 
same  place,  we  all  would  eventually  wind  up  in  the  same  place,  so  we 
should  feel  honored  as  well  as  obligated  to  kelp  one  another  through  the 
journey. 

Thank  you  for  bringing  back  the  memory  of  your  late  husband.  I 
wish  you  all  the  luck  in  the  world,  this  and  the  next,  with  TZ 
magazine.  I hope  that  the  future  holds  only  glorious  success  for  you 
and  the  new  authors  you  discover.  Mr.  Serling’s  memory  deserves 
nothing  less. 

Please  keep  the  hitters  and  cards  coming.  Let  us  know  what  you’d  like  to 
see  more  of.  The  first  contest  is  closed  now,  and  the  judges  are  working  hard. 
Look  for  the  announcement  of  TZ’s  new  contest  on  page  13  of  this  issue. 


TZ  Publications 

S.  Edward  Orenstein, 

President  & Chairman 
Sidney  Z.  Gellman 
Secretary!  Treasurer 
Leon  Garry 
Eric  Protter 

Executive  Vice-Presidents 

Executive  Publisher: 

S.  Edward  Orenstein 
Publisher:  Leon  Garry 
Associate  Publisher  and 
Consulting  Editor:  Carol  Serling 
Editorial  Director:  Eric  Protter 

Editor:  T.E.D.  Klein 
Managing  Editor:  Jane  Bayer 
Contributing  Editors:  Gahan  Wilson, 
Theodore  Sturgeon 
Editorial  Assistant:  Marc  Stecker 

Design  Director:  Derek  Burton 
Art  and  Studio  Production: 

Georg  the  Design  Group 

Production  Director:  Edward  Ernest 
Controller:  Thomas  Schiff 
Administrative  Asst.:  Eve  Grammatas 
Public  Relations  Manager: 

Jeffrey  Nickora 

Accounting  Mgr.:  Chris  Grossman 

Circulation  Director:  Denise  Kelly 
Circulation  Assistant:  Karen  Wiss 
Circulation  Marketing  Mgr.: 

Jerry  Alexander 

Western  Newsstand  Consultant: 

Harry  Sommer,  N.  Hollywood,  CA 

Advertising  Manager:  Rachel  Britapaja 
Adv.  Production  Mgr.: 

Marina  Despotakis 
Advertising  Representatives: 

Barney  O’Hara  & Associates,  Inc. 

105  E.  35  St.,  New  York,  NY  10016 
(212)  889-8820 

410  N.  Michigan  Ave.,  Chicago,  IL  60611 
(312)  467-9494 

326  W.  Rosa  Dr.,  Green  Valley,  AZ  85614 
(602)  625-5995 

9017  Placido,  Reseda  Blvd.,  North  Ridge, 

I CA  91324  (213)701-6897 


Rod  Serling’s  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  1981,  Volume 
1,  Number  7 is  published  monthly  in  the  United  States 
and  simultaneously  in  Canada  by  TZ  Publications,  Inc., 
800  Second  Avenue,  New  York  N.Y.  10017.  Telephone 
(212)  986-9600.  Copyright  © 1981  by  TZ  Publications,  Inc. 
Rod  Serling's  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine  is  published 
pursiumt  to  license  from  Carolyn  Serling  and  Viacom  En- 
terprises, a division  of  Viacom  Intemaional,  Inc.  All 
rights  reserved.  Controlled  circulation  postage  paid  at 
Pewaukee,  WI,  and  at  New  York,  NY,  and  at  additional 
mailing  offices.  Responsiblity  is  not  assumed  for  unsolic- 
ited materials.  Return  postal  must  accompany  all  unso- 
licited material  if  return  is  requested.  All  rights  reserved 
on  material  accepted  for  publication  unless  otherwise 
specified.  All  letters  sent  to  Rod  Serling’s  The  Twilight 
Zone  Magazine  or  to  its  editors  are  assumed  intended  for 
publication.  Nothing  may  be  reproduced  in  whole  or  in 
part  without  written  permission  ft-om  the  publishers. 
Any  similarity  between  pereons  appearing  in  fiction  and 
reaJ  persons  living  or  dead  is  coincidental.  Single  copies  $2 
in  U.S.  and  Canada.  Subscriptions:  U.S.,  U.S.  possessions, 
Canada,  and  AFO— one  year,  12  issues:  $22  ($27  in  Cana- 
dian curency);  two  years,  24  issues:  $35  ($43  in  Canadian 
currency).  Postmaster:  Send  address  changes  to  P.O. 
Box  252,  Mt.  Morris,  IL  61054.  Printed  in  U.S.A. 


S 


OTHER  D I M E N S I O N S 


Books 

by  Theodore  Sturgeon 


The  book  came  to  me  some  time 
ago,  thanks  to  Bantam— a very  early 
reading  copy— and  it  has  been  lying  on 
a shelf  under  my  desk,  exuding  an 
almost  tangible  fragrance  of  wonder, 
of  amaze,  of  delight  and  marvel,  and 
has  filled  me  with  eagerness  to  write 
this  review.  And  now  the  time  for  it 
has  come,  and  I have  felt,  for  a day  or 
more,  helpless  to  start.  I don’t  want  to 
play  this  note  by  note,  the  way  words 
fall,  but  in  chords. 

I understand  totally  the  late 
Anthony  Boucher’s  feelings  when  for 
the  first  time  he  discovered  Tolkten. 
Tony  had  a special  passion  for  people 
who  read  fantasy  and  science  fiction, 
and  he  mourned  the  fact  that  he  could 
not  present  everyone  he  loved  with 
those  books,  share  them,  share  the 
love  of  them.  There  was,  there  is, 
there  will  be,  a sense  of  exasperation 
when  someone  whose  taste  and 
sensibilities  you  know  well  has  not  yet 
read  some  special  book;  one  must  hold 
hard  to  the  certainty  that  some  day 
he’ll  come  or  call  and  say,  “I’ve  read 
it!’’;  and  then  the  joy  of  sharing  really 
happens. 

So  then:  the  book.  The  book  is 
Little,  Big  by  John  Crowley  (Bantam, 
$8.95).  It’s  a big  one,  and  I don’t  mean 
merely  its  five  hundred-odd  pages  of 
not-so-big  print.  It’s  big  in  other 
dimensions:  space,  time,  and  profound 
penetrations  into  the  human  heart; 
and  in  a dimension  that  might  be 
regarded,  like  the  fourth  dimension  of 
a tesseract,  as  existing  at  right  angles 
to  each  of  the  other  three  and  to  all  of 
them.  It’s  a direction  of  fantasy,  the 
feeling  of  a real  world  always  in 
contact  with  your  own  but  in  many 
ways  dissimilar,  even  impossible, 
except  to  those  who  live  and  love  and 
breathe  it. 

And  I still  haven’t  told  you  about 
the  book.  Very  roughly  speaking,  it’s 
about  a young  man  named  Smoky  who 
is  traveling,  on  foot,  by  a route  and  in 
a way  which  has  been  meticulously 
j laid  out  for  him,  through  a letter  from 
I his  intended,  whose  name  is  Daily 
I Alice,  by  her  Aunt  Cloud,  who  reads  | 
I cards.  But  it  just  begins  there;  it  isn’t  i 


really  Smoky’s  story,  except  that  you 
might  say,  after  all,  that  it  is.  (Have 
patience  with  me,  will  you?  It’s  that 
sort  of  book.)  They  wed  and  take  up 
their  lives  in  what  is  the  most 
extraordinary  house  in  all  of 
literature.  If  you  flew  over  it,  you 
would  look  down  on  a floor  plan 
shaped  like  a five-pointed  star.  Each 
of  the  ten  outside  walls  is  done  in  a 
different  style.  The  inside  is  a series  of 
floors  and  half-floors  and  long  and 
short  staircases  and  corridors  so 
complicated  that  no  one  is  quite  sure 
how  many  rooms  it  has  nor  just  how  to 
get  from  one  to  another.  And  this,  like 
everything  else  in  the  book,  is  what  it 
is  and  is  also  symbolic  of  something  or 
some  things  else. 

And  the  people— all  quite  different 
from  anyone  you’ve  known,  all  quite 
real  (and  if  they’re  not,  they  will 


become  so  before  you’re  done). 

There’s  dear,  bumbling  Smoky  and  tall 
—very  tall— Daily  Alice  and  her  sister 
Sophie  and  strange  old  Auberon,  who 
(like  Lewis  Carroll)  likes  to  take 
photographs  of  nude  little  girls,  and 
whose  motivation  is  that,  when  he 
does,  he  can  detect  the  faces  of— well, 
of  Others  in  the  leafy  backgrounds; 
and  his  young  namesake  who  has 
adventures  seeking  his  fortune  on  the 
family  farm  (wh  ch  is  in  the  heart  of 
the  city)  and  los«!s,  or  finds, 
everything  in  a city  park  built  by  his 
ancestor.  (Maybe  the  book  is  really  his 
story.)  And  the  terrifying  Ariel 
Hawksquill,  who  feels  herself  the 
controlling  interface  between  an  age 
of  Time  and  a coming  age  of  Space. 
Through  and  through  are  the 
interactions  of  tliese  people,  so 
human,  so  tender,  so  very  loving.  And 


6 


From  Terrorl  [A  8t  W Visual  Library]  'c  1976  by  Peter  Haining  and  Pictorial  Presentations 


I BOOKS 


I 


then  there  is  the  sudden  appearance  of 
Russell  Eigenblick,  who  has  come 
from  nowhere  to  be  elected  President 
and  to  become  dictator,  who  is  also  a 
resurrected  despot  from  a thousand 
years  ago.  You  see,  it’s  all  another 
universe  or  it’s  metaphor  or  it’s  just  a 
story;  or  perhaps  none  of  this  matters 
except  that  you  are  granted  a unique 
experience. 

Crowley’s  writing  is  vivid,  rich, 
surprising.  His  images  are  deft  and  his 
metaphors  consistent;  he  knows  how 
to  continue  them  through  a scene  and 
he  knows  when  to  stop.  For  example, 
one  hot  night  Smoky  and  the  towering 
Daily  Alice  lay  in  bed  with  only  the 
sheet  over  them;  “The  long  white  hills 
and  dales  made  by  her  body  shifted 
cataclysmically  and  settled  into  a 
different  country.’’  And  further  along: 
“He  looked  at  the  dim  range  of  snowy 
mountains  which  Daily  Alice  made 
beside  him.’’  You’ll  find  this  kind  of 
thing  throughout  the  book:  a vivid 
image  and,  just  in  the  dying  afterglow, 
another  flash  of  it;  then  he  drops  it. 

He  also  uses  what  I call  “audible 
punctuation”;  he  makes  you  hear  it: 
“My  grandfather?  The  one  who 
designed  the  park?  ...”  Can’t  you 
hear  that?  In  addition,  Crowley  shows 
a profound  intimacy  with  nature.  He 
knows  the  names  of  all  the  trees  and 
plants  and  animals,  and  what  color 
leaves  and  blooms  take  on  when 
animals  are  abroad  or  on  their  way  to 
hibernation . . . together  with  an 
ancient  fish  who  just  might  be  Alice’s 
great-grandfather. 

More  than  five  hundred  pages, 
and  when  you  reach  the  end,  you 
mourn  that  there  are  no  more,  and 
you  deeply  envy  those  who  have  yet  to 
read  it;  you  wish  you  could  be  a fly  on 
the  wall  to  watch  their  surprise  and 
delight  as  they  turn  these  magic 
leaves.  And  then  it  will  come  to  you 
that  something  is  possible  after  all, 
something  that  really  connects  you 
with  those  who  are  having  this 
experience  for  the  first  time:  Yow  can 
read  it  again.  For  this  book  is  so  full 
of  mysteries  and  perplexities  and 
multilevel  learnings,  that  you  can 
indeed  find  newness  all  over  again. 
Maybe  better. 

Stephen  Englehart  comes  up  out 
of  nowhere,  or  the  Bay  area  or  some 
place,  to  explode  on  us  with  a first 
novel  that  places  itself  way  up  there 
with  some  of  the  finest  in  the  genre. 


The  Point  Man  (Dell,  $2.95)  is  as 
exciting  a slam-banger  as  you’ll  find 
this  year.  But  it’s  much  more  than 
that. 

There  are  many  things  about 
being  a modern  combat  veteran  that 
are  rough,  nasty,  and  downright 
unfair.  The  learning  gleaned  from  it, 
both  planned  and  experiential,  is, 
while  it  goes  on,  absolute.  You  learn  it 
all  well,  you  learn  it  fast,  or  you  die. 
(You  could  die  even  if  you  do  learn  it; 
that  comes  with  the  package.)  Not  the 
most  painful,  but  the  most 
reprehensible  of  all  this  is  that  when 
you  come  back,  along  with  the 
personal  rejection  you  so  often  get,  is 
the  fact  that  skills  you  learned  are 
useless  to  you  and,  if  used,  are 
unacceptable. 

The  point  man  is  a very  special 
sort  of  soldier.  He’s  the  guy  who  goes 
out  alone,  often  in  the  dark  in  strange 
territory,  to  smell  out  the  enemy.  He’s 
followed  at  a distance  by  flankers  and 
then  by  a squad,  but  for  all  that,  he’s 
very  much  alone.  It  is  he  who  must 
know,  by  a sixth  sense,  of  the  presence 
of  castration  mines.  He  has  to  have 
eyes  that  see  in  the  dark,  to  locate 
snipers  and  ambushers.  He  has  to  hear 
the  unaccustomed  silence  of  insects  in 
the  presence  of  hidden  enemies,  or  the 
unnatural  silence  of  motionless,  all  but 
unbreathing  men.  He  has  to  have  an 
alertness  akin  to  ESP.  His  is  the  prime 
personal  peril;  his  is  the  immediate 
responsibility  for  the  lives  and  safety 
of  the  men,  of  the  friends  who  follow. 
The  point  man  has  to  be  good  at  what 
he  does;  he  has  to  get  better  the  more 
he  does  it.  He  has  to  know  how  good 
he  is,  and,  knowing  this,  he  will  get  to 
like  what  he  is  doing.  It’s  the  tight- 
drawn,  total  joy  in  his  life.  He  has  no 
alternative;  it’s  his  ultimate  survival 
adaptation. 

Englehart’ s Max  August  is  a point 
man  who  comes  back  to  civilian  life 
with  all  his  skills  intact,  and  he  does 
not  cease  to  use  them ....  One  of  my 
best  teachers  in  the  writing  craft  was 
the  late  Will  F.  Jenkins,  whom  you 
probably  know  as  “Murray  Leinster.” 
His  chief  resource  for  plot-building 
was  to  take  a man  who  was  something 
by  birth  or  training  or  sheer 
stubbornness— shoemaker,  teacher, 
sea  captain,  mechanic— and  drop  him 
into  a situation  where  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  be  that.  He 
would  then  gleefully  watch  the  person 
work  his  way  out  of  his  difficulties  and 


dangers  just  by  being  what  he  was. 

And  so  it  is  with  Max  August,  point 
man.  Returning  to  the  States  does  not 
change  him.  Renaming  himself 
Barnaby  Wilde,  I'adio  rock  jockey 
(and,  by  the  way,  Englehart  knows 
this  trade  from  the  inside)  does  not 
change  him.  Encountering  a covert 
battle  between  magicians,  a battle 
which  smacks  of  Armageddon  itself, 
activates  every  skill  and  talent  he  has 
acquired  in  war— the  same 
sensitivities,  the  same  decisiveness, 
the  same  implacable  confrontation 
with  personal  peril— all  on  behalf  of 
survival  and  the  ultimate  love  for  his 
“squad,”  which  is,  after  all,  all  of  us. 

In  a matrix  of  rock  music,  dizzy  rock 
fans,  the  police,  the  Mafia,  sex, 
betrayal,  and  innocent  bystanders,  the 
point  man  moves  and  performs  his 
function.  The  magic  is  most  magical, 
and  enormous  to  boot,  and  the 
mystery  and  the  tension  will  not 
release  you. 

Or  maybe  this  is  enough:  you’ll 
like  it. 

There  ought  to  be  a continuing 
index  of  science  fiction  magazines 
(there  has  been,  off  and  on  over  the 
years,  though  mostly  off),  and  now 
there  is  one— a g(5od  one.  A couple  of 
dedicated  guys  with  impeccable  fan 
credentials,  Jerry  Boyajian  and 
Kenneth  R.  Johnson,  have  produced 
Index  to  the  Science  Fiction 
Magazines  1980  (Twaci  Press,  P.O. 

Box  87,  M.I.T.  Bi'anch  Post  Office, 
Cambridge,  MA  02139;  $3  single  issue, 
$4  by  mail)  and  intend  to  supplement 
it  annually.  This  is  magazines  only, 
mind;  the  editors  are  convinced  that 
magazines  are  still  where  the  action  is, 
and  so  am  I.  The  Index  is  carefully 
drawn,  with  Author  and  Magazine  and 
Title  and  Artist  sections,  plus  an 
appendix  listing  sf  in  miscellaneous 
magazines.  Twaci  Press  has  more 
titles  upcoming;  I’ll  let  you  know. 

If  your  thing  is  battle,  sex, 
violence,  and  hardcore  sf  all  at  once, 

Karl  Hansen’s  tale  of  the  “hybrid” 
universe  and  a man  altered  clear  down  | 
to  the  cells  in  order  to  steal  a 
“timestone”  that  will  reveal  the  date 
of  his  death,  then  War  Games  (PEI, 
$2.50)  is  your  cookie. 

Warmest  congratulations  from  us 
all  to  Donald  A.  Wollheim  on  the  tenth 
anniversary  of  DAW  books.  • 19 


s 


OTHER 


D 


M E 


S 


O N S 


i 


Screen 

by  Gahan  Wilson 


Escape  from  New  York 

(Avco  Embassy) 

Directed  by  John  Carpenter 
I Screenplay  by  John  Carpenter 

and  Nick  Castle 

Gotland  (Ladd) 
j Written  and  directed 

i by  Peter  Hyams 

^ Superman  II  (Warner  Brothers) 
Directed  by  Richard  Lester 
Screenplay  by  Mario  Puzo,  David 
Newman,  and  Leslie  Newmatn 

Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark  (Paramount) 
Directed  by  Steven  Spielberg 
Screenplay  by  Lawrence  Kasdan 


Somewhere  in  his  writings,  dear  I 
sane  Heniy  David  Thoreau  (which 
rhymes  with  furrow,  which  surprised 
me  when  I learned  it  and  may  surprise 
you)  observed  with  gratitude  that  he 
had  been  bom  “in  the  nick  of  time.”  I | 
knew  exactly  what  he  meant  when  I 
read  it  back  in  high  school,  and  I still  , 
do— but  with  a good  deal  more  force 
and  profundity  now,  because 
extraordinarily  clever  people  have 
gone  to  great  lengths  and  have 
exhibited  astonishing  ingenuity  in 
order  to  show  me,  clearly  and 
precisely,  leaving  nothing  to  the 
imagination,  what  lies  just  beyond  this 
precious,  darling,  nevermore-to-be- 
seen-again  nick  of  time  wherein  you  i 
and  I,  reader,  have  the  amazing  good  ^ 
fortune  to  dwell.  ; 

Look  around  yourself  with  j 

gratitude.  Observe  that  there  are  ! 

green  things  growing,  if  only  in  a pot  ' 
on  your  desk;  note  that  the  air  is  i 
breathable  by  humans— with  some 
difficulty  in  the  larger  cities,  , 

admitteiy,  but  breathable  —and,  with  ' 
tears  of  joy,  consider  that  there  are  at  ; 
least  some  lingering  fragments  of 
humanity,  some  vestiges  of  the 
romantic  notion  that  men  should  be 
considerate  of  other  men,  still  to  be 
found  in  the  laws  and  regulations 
govOTiing  this  land. 


i 


It  will  not  be  so  for  long,  reader, 
not  long  at  all.  If  my  instractors  are 
correct  (and  they  present  their 
message  most  convincingly),  it’s  all 
going  to  begin  coming  apart  in  the 
Eighties—  yes,  these  very  Eighties; 
and  by  the  time  we  hit  the  tag-end  of 
the  Nineties,  the  only  sensible  move 
left  to  any  of  us  will  be  to  press  our 
laser  pistols  to  our  temples  and 
vaporize  our  brains. 

Hints  and  whispers  have  been 
given  us  for  some  time  past.  Things  to 
Come,  filmed  classily  from  H.G.  Wells’ 
script,  informed  us  that  things  might 
get  a little  tacky  after  the  Great  War, 
but  made  it  clear  that  they  would  all 
work  out  swell  in  the  end,  thanks  to 
Raymond  Massey.  The  Day  the  Earth 
Stood  StiU  suggested,  but  very 
obliquely,  that  we  might,  in  time, 
become  a little  bit  too  dependent  on 
robots.  Star  Wars,  in  between  those 
jolly  fights  we  all  enjoyed  so  much, 
demonstrated  the  strong  possibility 
that  advanced  technology  in  no  way 
assured  the  doing-away  of  scruffy 
architecture  and  general  clutter,  not  to 
say  an  atmosphere  of  all-round 
junkiness. 

But  these  films,  and  others  like 
them,  were  only  pessimistic  around  the 
edges,  so  to  speak;  they  admitted  that 
the  future  might  have  its  flaws,  its  little 
unpleasantries,  but  they  all  heartily 
agreed  with  one  another  that 
essentially  the  future  would  be  good. 
Better,  actually,  as  all  of  us, 
moviemakers  and  moviegoers  alike, 
were  still  deeply  immersed  in  the  naive 
and  childish  fantasy  that  we  were  ' 
engaged  in  a process  called  progress 
and  that,  inevitably,  everything  was 
improving,  thanks  t»  science  and  sliced 
bread  and  so  on. 

Well,  things  don’t  really  seem  to  be 
getting  better  after  all,  now,  do  they? 
Statistical  curves  tend  to  go  up  when 
we’d  like  them  to  go  down,  and  down 
when  we’d  much  prefer  seeing  them  go 
up;  ecological  trends  are  best  not 
thought  of;  and  the  'Third  World  and 
the  Inner  Cities  seem,  in  gloomier 
moments,  society’s  avant  garde.  Is 


there  any  hope?  Any  hope  at  all? 

No,  says  Escape  from  New  York, 

I there  is  not.  We  shall  give  up  on  one 
another,  we  humans,  and  we  won’t 
take  long  about  i t.  By  the  late  Nineties 
! we  shall  have  become  so  defeatist  that 
I we  will  permanently  jail  anyone  who 
' transgresses  oui  laws.  There  will  be  no 
discussion  of  rehabilitation, 
reformation,  or  any  of  that  crap.  We 
will  lock  up  criminals  forever,  throw 
; away  the  keys,  and  the  only  mercy 
i we’ll  extend  (so  heartless  we  have 
! become)  will  be  to  offer  to  cremate 
them  instead. 

Outside  of  tlie  fact  that  it’s 
' presenting  us  with  the  picture  of  a 
. totally  defeated  society.  Escape  from 
i New  York  is  really  quite  a dandy 
i thriller,  but  you  must  be  careful  not  to 
; ponder  its  deeper  implications  while 
I viewing  it  or  you  may  break  into 
i racking  sobs.  The  basic  premise, 

! amusing  if  examined  with  sufficient 
! abstraction,  is  that  New  York  City  has 
i collapsed  completely  (no  doubt  with  the 
' rest  of  the  dec^ent  East  Coast,  all  the 
; decent  folk  having  presumably  retired 
' to  the  Sun  Belt),  and  that  our 
government,  in  its  wisdom,  has  turned 
all  of  Manhattan  into  one  big  jail— 

' except  that,  unlilce  Alcatraz  and  those 
' other  old-timey  island  prisons,  there 
are  no  guards  in  the  place  to  maintain 
order,  there  is  only  a sort  of  super 
; border  patrol.  The  prisoners,  once 
dumped,  can  do  with  one  another  what 
they  like. 

I assume  this  abominable  state  of 
affairs  is  the  result  of  a bill  passed  by 
j both  houses  and  signed  by  toe 
j President,  so  it  is  satisfymg— some  nice 
I things  will  happen  in  toe  future— when 
i that  President,  played  by  an 
j astonishingly  fat  Donald  Pleasence, 

: finds  himself  dumped  into  toe  middle  of 
1 this  officially  sarctioned  hellhole  and  at 
I toe  mercy  of  its  understandably  cranky 
denizens.  They  are  led  by  a piratical 
character  played  with  obvious 
enjoyment  by  Issiac  Hayes,  a fellow 
I usu^y  associated  with  toe  somewhat 
gentler  field  of  ajul  music.  Here  he 
I enjoys  killing  people,  staging  horrible 


1 


10 


Photo  by  Kim  Gottlieb,  courtesy  Avco  Embassy  Courtesy  The  Ladd  Company 


treated  with  appalling  cruelty  by  the 
powers  that  be  is  not  the  criminal 
element,  but  the  workers.  We  are 
shown— with  really  superb  attention  to 
detail  and  dazzling,  throw-away  special 
effects— how  entirely  cruel  a major 
corporation  of  the  near  future  will  be  to 
its  employees. 

The  scene  is  one  of  the  moons  of 
Jupiter,  and  I can  remember  when,  if 
the  scene  was  a moon  of  Jupiter, 
everything  was  great!  You  know? 
Handsome  heroes,  and  these  really 
terrific  girls  wearing  mostly  plastic 
{transparent  plastic),  and  super 
monsters  which  all  got  killed? 

Not  on  this  moon  of  Jupiter!  Not  on 
your  ass.  On  this  moon  of  Jupiter  we 
have  a mining  colony  possessing  a 
desolation  and  a hopelessness  that 
Siberia  has  tried  for  but  failed  to 
achieve.  The  poor,  exhausted  bastards 
working  here  suffer  conditions  which 
indicate  that  the  union  movement  came 
to  naught  after  all  and  that  there  is  no 
point  to  anything.  Martin  Bower,  who 
built  the  model  of  the  colony,  was  also 
the  creator  of  the  models  for  Alien,  and 
I suspect  that  the  producers  hired  him 
. because,  whatever  else  it  did  or  did  not 
do.  Alien  effectively  conveyed  the  idea 
that  mankind’s  futoe  would  be 
practically  intolerable— and  that’s 
certainly  what  they  want  to  tell  you  in 
OuUand. 

The  story  is  High  Noon  with 

11 


"Get  It  through  your  heads,  readers: 
we  are  no  good. " Sean  Connery,  as  a 
two-fisted  outer  space  lawman,  Is 
almost  done  in  by  a knife-wielding  dope 
smuggler  In  Outland. 


"There  will  be  no  discussion  of  rehabilitation,  reformation,  or 
any  of  that  crap. " Kurt  Itussell,  as  master  criminal  Snake 
Pllssken,  is  forced  to  undertake  a one-man  Presidential  rescue 
mission  in  Escape  from  iMew  York. 


I fights,  and  upsetting  tlie  President  of 
I the  United  States  by  shooting  at  him 
till  he  whimpers  and  bj'  slapping  a 
I fright  wig  on  his  bald  I’residential 
head.  Hayes  is  assisted  by  a whole  pack 
of  rogues  and  (albeit  uimeliably)  by 
Harry  Dean  Stanton,  doing  another 
one  of  his  excellent  fretting  criminals. 

This  dreadful  state  of  affairs  is 
thoroughly  disapproved  of  by  Lee  Van 
Cleef,  an  officer  of  the  Federal  Police 
Force.  Van  Cleef  bullies  a 
supercriminal  called  “Snake”  (Kurt 
Russell,  with  a nice  hissing  voice  and  a 
reptilian  tattoo)  to  slip  into  Manhattan 
and  rescue  the  leader  of  our  country  so 
that  the  President  can  go  on  the  air  and 
save  the  planet— you  S(«,  things  are 
even  worse  than  you  thought— from  an 
imminent  nuclear  holoc.aust!!!  What  the 
heh. 

As  I say,  outside  of  its  remarkably 
depressing  environment.  Escape  is 
good  escape,  and  certainly  the  best 
thing  John  Carpenter  has  done  to  date. 
There  are  two  flaws,  though.  The  film 
attempts  to  present  us  with  a New 
York  City  in  a state  of  horrendous 
disrepair,  not  only  a New  York 
abandoned  for  years  by  the  Sanitation 
Department  and  Con  Edison,  but  one 
which  has  been  at  the  mercy  of  a 
graffiti-mad  criminal  class  for  the  same 
length  of  time;  yet  thovigh  there  are 
scenes  of  spectacular  demolishment, 
the  place  is  really  a lot  tidier  and  less 


scuzzy  than  many  sectors  the 
adventurous  tourist  from  Ohio  can  see 
for  himself  today.  I also  get  the 
impression  that  Carpenter  knows  his 
Los  Angeles  better  than  he  knows  his 
New  York.  The  second  flaw  is  that,  for 
the  sake  of  a weak  joke.  Carpenter  has 
his  hero  doom  us  all  to  destruction  with 
a juvenile  gesture  at  the  end,  and  I find 
that  harder  to  forgive  because,  by  the 
time  I’d  gotten  through  the  movie.  I’d 
grown  to  like  old  “Snake”  and  to 
expect  better  things  of  him. 

Outland  makes  Escape  look 
positively  cheerful.  The  slogan 
embossed  on  its  posters  does  a good  job 
of  describing  its  general  philosophy: 
Even  in  space— the  ultimate  enemy  is 
man.  Get  it  through  your  heads, 
readers:  we  are  no  good.  We  are  scum, 
and  when  we  get  through  with 
destroying  our  lovely  planet  with  vile 
pollution  (if  we  don’t  actually  end  by 
blowing  it  apart),  what  nasty  little 
hordes  there  are  left  of  us  will  go  out 
and  do  what  we  can  to  violate  the 
universe.  All  right?  I don’t  want  to  be 
harsh,  but  certain  obvious  realities 
must  be  faced. 

In  Outland— winch,  again,  is  a 
perfectly  swell  adventure  film  if  only 
you  can  live  with  the  bleakness  of  its 
core— we  are  once  more  presented  with 
a society  cynically  indifferent  to  its  own 
people.  Here  the  particular  group  being 


ISCREEN 


“He  was  kindly  and  generous ...”  In  the  Fortress  of  Solitude, 
his  arctic  hideaway,  the  Man  of  Steel  (Christopher  Reeve)  and 
Lois  Lane  (Margot  Kidder)  savor  the  Joys  of  domesticity  in 
Superman  II. 


"...  a rolling  stone  the  size  of  a McDonald's  stand. " 
Harrison  Ford  narrowly  evades  being  flattened  at  the  start  of 
Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark. 


perfectly  acceptable  trimmings.  Sean 
Connery  proves  again  that  he  is^e 
best  hero  in  the  business;  Peter  Boyle 
plays  the  meanie  who  divides  his  time 
about  equally  between  thwarting 
Connery’s  attempts  to  make  the  Jovian 
moon  a decent  place  to  live  and 
practicing  golf  strokes  before  a 
simulated  fairway;  and  Frances 
Stemhagen  plays  a brave  lady  doctor 
who  decides  she’ll  string  along  with 
Connery  against  tall  odds.  They  are  all 
supported  by  a fine  cast,  and  Peter 
Hyams  has  done  a first-rate  job  of 
writing  and  directing  this  depressingly 
convincing  movie. 


Superman.  Indeed,  1 suspect  that  they 
hate  him.  I don’t  think  I’ve  ever  seen  a 
movie  go  to  such  lengths  to  cheapen 
and  humiliate  its  hero.  Something 
about  nobility  and  high  aspiration  really 
seems  to  bug  these  guys,  and  there  is 
an  all-pervading  lack  of  sensibility  to 
the  film,  a sort  of  numb  crudeness, 
which  I found  disturbing. 

It  is,  for  example,  very  important 
that  the  violence  in  Superman  be 
essentially  unreal,  because  if  that  sort 
of  mythic  strength— the  hero-god  come 
to  earth  to  right  wings— is  depicted  in 
terms  of  an  ordinary  flesh-and-blood 
fight,  the  whole  essence  of  it  is 
hopelessly  skewed.  In  Superman  11  we 
have  nas^  violence  with  blood,  and 
people  re^y  hurting  with  damaging 
blows  to  the  guts.  Humans  get  kicked 
out  of  the  screen,  and  you  hear  the  foot 
crush  the  flesh.  It’s  a mixing  of  mental 
sets  which  sickens.  Supose  the  Wicked 
Witch  in  Hansel  and  Gretel  devoured 
the  children  as  Wood  and  muscle 
instead  of  as  gingerbread  men? 

Another  examine  of  Superman  II’s 
ham-handedness,  though  more  on  the 
lighter  side,  is  the  business  of  wigs.  The 
main  human  villain  in  this  thing  is  bald 
and  wears  various  wig;s,  and  many 
leaden  attempts  at  humor  are  based  on 
this  point.  Very  well.  But  then  we  bring 
in  E.  G.  Marshal  as  the  President  of 
the  United  States,  a President  which 
the  film,  I think,  is  trying  to  present  as 
a dignified  and  worthy  man;  but  they 
.show  him,  close  up  and  cruelly  lit, 
wearing  one  of  the  most  obviously 
phony  hairpieces  I’ve  ever  seen  on  the 
screen.  Why,  for  (jod’s  sake?  It  looks  a 
little  as  if  it  was  intended  to  mimic 


Reagan’s  styling;,  so  maybe  it’s  some 
oafish,  badly  exe  cuted  joke  along  those 
lines.  'That  would  be  a^ut  Superman 
IPs  speed. 

Another  escape  from  the  future  to 
the  past.  Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark,  is  a 
good  deal  more  successful,  but  that 
should  not  come  as  a complete  surprise, 
since  the  guiding;  hands  belong  to 
Messrs.  George  Lucas  and  Steven 
Spielberg.  It  is  an  entirely  unserious 
film  (Spielberg  and  Lucas  are  much 
their  best  when  tmserious),  and  if  you 
liked  movie  serials  or  the  Superman  of 
the  comic  books  or  any  of  that  other 
greasy  kid  stuff,  you’ll  have  a fine  time. 
Of  course,  you’ll  have  to  put  up  with  an 
Egyptian  tomb  full  of  sn^es  and 
mummies,  and  Nazi  fiends,  and 
horrible  Mayan  death  traps,  including  a 
rolling  stone  the  size  of  a McDonald’s 
stand;  and  I hope  you  haven’t  got  a 
thing  about  tarantulas,  or  ancient 
curses,  or  that  sort  of  stuff. 

Harrison  Ford  comes  across  as  the 
sort  of  h^o  you  were  afraid  you’d 
never  see  again,  Karen  Allen  is  the 
gamest  little  girlfriend  in  the  world, 
and  I hope  they’ll  give  Denholm  Elliott, 
as  the  hero’s  scholarly  mentor,  more  to 
do  in  the  sequels— of  which  I hope  there 
will  be  plenty. 

Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark  is  not  really 
a return  to  the  past,  of  course— there 
never  was  such  a,  past,  outside  the 
heads  of  demented  moviemakers  or 
mad  cartoonists— but  it’s  something 
that’s  been  away  too  long,  and  I’m 
delighted  to  see  it  return.  And  maybe, 
after  all,  those  other  films  are  not 
about  the  future.  & 


There  is  a strong  reaction  on  the 
nation’s  screens  to  these  awful 
glimpses  of  where  we  may  be  drifting, 
a firm  kick  in  the  reverse  direction,  a 
determined  attempt  to  go  the  other 
way. 

Superman  II  is  one  such.  They 
have  seen  the  future  and  they  don’t  like 
it— so  it’s  back  to  the  comic  books,  back 
to  when  we  were  kids,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  The  public  seems  to  want  that 
very  much;  Superman  II  broke  all  sorts 
of  lx)x-office  records  at  its  start,  and 
who  knows  what  Superman  III,  TV, 
and  V will  make? 

I liked  Superman,  the  one  in  the 
comic  books;  I liked  him  very  much.  He 
was  a great  help  to  kids,  me  included. 
He  was  power  well  used,  he  was  kindly 
and  generous,  and  he  was  proof,  at 
least  to  kids,  that  justice  could  triumph. 

I don’t  like  Superman  II,  and  I 
think  the  main  reason  I don’t  is  that 
the  people  who  built  it  don’t  like 


Courtesy  Warrier  Brothers  Courtesy  Paramount  Pictures 


Z 1 

INTI 

E R V 1 

1 E 

Richard  Matheson: 


Spinning 


Last  month  Richard  Matheson  talked 
to  interviewer  James  H.  Burns  about 
his  early  days  cis  a novelist  and  screen- 
writer, and  about  his  now-classic  con- 
tributions to  Rod  Serling’s  Twilight 
Zone  television  show.  In  the  following 
pages,  concluding  this  two-part  TZ  In- 
terview, Matheson  looks  back  to  some  of 
the  highlights  of  his  career,  offers  a 
veteran’s-eye-view  of  the  present-day 
horror  scene,  and  discusses  writing 
projects  still  to  come. 

TZ:  You  produced  some  of  your  best- 
known  work  in  the  1960s,  adapting  the 
tales  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  for  Roger  Gor- 
man and  American  International  Pic- 
tures. How  did  you  get  involved  with 
this  project? 

Matheson:  Roger  must  have  known 
about  me,  because  he  got  in  touch  with 
me  about  doing  the  first  of  his  Poe 
films.  The  House  of  Usher.  I didn’t  know 
about  AIP— Sam  Arkoff  and  Jim  Nich- 
olson— at  that  point.  For  a long  time,  I 
thought  that  I was  working  directly  for 
Roger.  I did  the  first  script  and  they  all 
liked  it,  so  we  continued  from  there. 
One  funny  thing  is  that  they  always  told 
me  to  cut  my  scripts;  they  thought  my 
screenplays  were  too  long.  Then,  when 
they’d  film  the  pictures,  they’d  always 
ask  me  to  add  stuff  on  because  the 
shooting  scripts  were  too  short! 

TZ:  Were  the  Poe  films  your  first  as- 
signments to  do  pure  horror? 
Matheson:  Unless  you  consider  The 
Incredible  Shrinking  Man  horror.  A 
guy  having  to  fight  a spider  that’s 
standing  over  him  is  pretty  horrible! 
TZ:  With  work  of  this  sort,  from 
Shrinking  Man  to  Poe  films,  you  must 
have  thought  quite  a lot  about  what 
would  scare  audiences. 

Matheson:  I think  I was  aware  of  that 
when  I was  writing  The  House  of  Usher. 

I A local  critic  said  that  the  film  started 
I slowly,  but  that,  by  the  time  it  reached 
i its  peak,  it  was  the  first  time  that  he 


fantasy  from 


way  to  do  film  horror  is  to  build  it  up 
gradually,  so  that  it  will  draw  you  in 
more  and  more.  I don’t  think  that  axes 
buried  in  people’s  heads  or  heads  ex- 
ploding are  what  scare  audiences. 
That’s  the  sort  of  stuff  that  kids  see  and 
say,  “Oh,  gross!”  What  I think  is  scary, 
and  what  I use  to  scare  people,  is  the 
unknown— when  you  don’t  know 
what’s  going  to  happen  and  you’re 
waiting  to  see. 

TZ:  A lot  of  present-day  directors  feel 
that  there’s  no  longer  an  audience  for 
pure  psychological  thrillers.  They  say 
you  have  to  show  some  gore  for  the  film 
to  be  effective. 

Matheson:  They  may  be  right.  There’s 
been  a glut  of  gory  films,  and  people 
have  become  jaded.  God  knows  where 
it  will  end.  I think  that’s  why,  in  our 
naivete,  we  thought  that  Somewhere  in 
Time  would  be  successful;  we  figured 
that  people  would  be  looking  for  some- 
thing different.  Apparently,  though, 
you  have  to  give  them  the  same  thing 
all  the  time,  only  making  it  more 
grotesque  and  horrible  than  the  last 
wave  of  films. 

TZ:  When  you  adapted  The  House  of 
Usher  and  the  subsequent  Poe  films, 
were  you  ever  worried  that  people 
might  feel  you  weren’t  doing  justice  to 
the  original  stories? 

Matheson:  I knew  from  the  beginning 
that  I couldn ’t  do  justice  to  Poe.  Most  of 
his  fiction  was  extremely  short;  there 
wasn’t  much  in  his  work  that  was  easily 
adaptable  to  a full-length  motion  pic- 
ture. I used  as  much  from  the  original 
story  in  House  of  Usher  as  I possibly 
could.  Poe’s  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum 
was  just  the  scene  where  the  guy’s  be- 
ing tortured  with  the  possibility  of 
someone  coming  to  rescue  him.  Since  I 
had  to  build  a motion  picture  around 
that,  it  would  be  absurd  to  think  that  I 
could  have  remained  completely  faith- 
ful to  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

TZ : How  happy  were  you  with  the  way 


daily  life 


tures,  mainly  because  I always  felt  that 
they  were  badly  cast.  Karloff,  Lorre, 
and  Price  were  all  wonderful,  but 
Roger  ran  into  problems  with  his 
younger  actors.  Roger’s  main  talent 
was  that  he  was  a good  visual  director. 
When  it  came  to  jgiving  his  actors  direc- 
tions, he’d  just  tell  them  to  do  whatever 
they  wanted.  That  was  fine  when  it 
came  to  the  movie  veterans,  but  the 
young  actors  wei'e  left  not  really  know- 
ing what  to  do. 

TZ:  Were  Karloff,  Lorre,  and  Price 
good  to  work  wi  th? 

Matheson:  Oh,  yes.  It  was  great  fun 
getting  to  knov'  them  and  watching 
them  perform.  I think  that  they  also 
had  great  fun  making  those  films,  espe- 
cially The  Comedy  of  Terrors. 

TZ:  Wasn’t  that  one  based  on  an 
original  script  of  yours? 

Matheson:  That’s  right.  The  Poe  pic- 
tures had  all  been  so  grim  that  once  we 
got  to  Tales  of  Terror  [an  anthology 
film  based  on  four  Poe  stories],  I new 
that  one  of  the  segments  had  to  be 
humorous.  Then,  when  they  wanted  to 
make  a film  out  of  The  Raven— a poem! 
—I  knew  that  humor  was  really  the  on- 
ly way  to  go  witli  it. 

TZ:  I’ve  heard  that  Lorre  liked  to 
make  up  his  own.  lines. 

Matheson:  Yes.  He  told  me  that  he 
used  to  drive  Sidney  Greenstreet  crazy 
when  they  were  making  films  together, 
because  Greenstreet  was  a purist.  In 
the  pictures  I wrote,  Lorre  would 
always  go  around  in  circles  with  his 
own  stuff  and  then  finally  come  back  to 
something  that  I was  trying  to  say.  Or- 
dinarily that  would  have  infuriated  me, 

I because  I work  very  hard  on  dialogue.  I 
I say  the  lines  to  myself  to  make  sure 
that  they  sound  right.  Peter  was  so 
charming,  though,  that  there  was  no 
I way  that  I could  get  mad  at  him. 

I TZ:  Wasn’t  Lorre  rather  sick  by  then? 

I Matheson:  I think  so.  He  was  pretty  i 
overweight.  Karloff,  however,  was  in  ; 


had  ever  heard  genuine  female  screams  | the  films  came  out? 

in  an  audience.  I believe  that  the  best  ■ Matheson:  I didn’t  like  the  Poe  pic- 


much  worse  health.  He  was  supposed 


to  play  Basil  Rjithbone’s  part  in  The 


14 


Matheson  Photos  by  Marc  Scott  Zicree 


Comedy  of  Terrors,  but  he  was  in  such 
terrible  shape  that  he  asked  Basil  if  he 
would  mind  if  they  switched  parts. 
Karloff  even  got  tired  doing  that  one 
scene  in  The  Raven  where  he  had  to 
walk  down  the  steps. 

Basil  himself  was  wonderful  to  know, 
because  he’d  been  in  one  of  my  favorite 
pictures  from  my  childhood,  Robin 
Hood.  He  was  a few  years  older  than 
Karloff,  but  he  still  looked  great.  Basil 
would  reflect  on  how  they  were  shoot- 
ing those  AIP  pictunjs  in  two  weeks, 
and  how,  in  the  old  'lays,  he  used  to 
have  three  days  to  shoot  just  one  duel 
scene. 

TZ:  Did  you  ever  wish,  while  doing  the 
AIP  films,  that  you  could  be  involved 
with  something  mere  mainstream 
and  perhaps  more  “re  spectable”? 
Matheson:  Oh,  I don’t  know.  I’ve  got- 
ten the  feeling  for  liOrd  knows  how 
many  years,  whenever  I see  a “re- 
spected” film,  that  I could  have  done 
just  as  well— and  in  most  cases  better— 
than  its  screenwriter.  That’s  been  a 
constant  lament  of  mine,  because  I 
think  that,  in  most  films,  craftsmanship 
has  gone  right  down  tire  tubes.  But  you 
can’t  get  around  the  I'act  that  film  is  a 
wonderful  form.  I hrue  movies— and 
when  fantasy  films  are  done  well,  noth- 
ing can  touch  them. 

TZ:  Wasn’t  one  “resjrectable”  picture 
that  you  almost  worked  on  around  that 
time  Alfred  Hitchcock ’s  The  Birds'! 
Matheson:  Yes.  I got  called  in  to  a 
meeting  on  that  with  Hitchcock.  Now,  I 
had  been  told  that  he'  was  a very  shy 
man,  so  what  happens  but  some  of  the 
other  people  who  were  supposed  to  be 
at  the  conference  couldn’t  show  up  for 
some  reason.  Hitchcock  got  stuck  with 
me  all  by  himself!  I had  barely  set  my 
foot  inside  his  office  when  I screwed 
myself  out  of  the  job.  I told  him,  “I 
don’t  think  that  you  should  show  the 
birds  too  much,  Mr.  Hitchcock.”  He 
looked  at  me  in  horror  and  said,  “Oh, 
no,  no,  no.”  Our  meeting  went  on  a lit- 
tle longer,  but  that  was  essentially  the 
end  of  the  possibility  of  my  scripting 
The  Birds.  I still  thinlic,  though,  that  I 
was  right.  The  best  scene  in  The  Birds 
is  when  the  characters  are  in  the  house 
and  you  hear  all  of  the  birds  outside. 
The  film  started  off  wth  Hitchcock’s 
usual  stuff  with  a pretty  blonde.  By  the 
time  he  got  to  that  scene  on  the  boat 
where  the  bird  pecks  her  on  the  head,  I 
was  bored.  The  film  had  some  good 
scenes,  but  structurally,  I really  didn’t 
think  that  it  was  that  welfdone.  I don’t 


find  masses  of  birds  frightening. 

TZ:  In  1966  you  were  reunited  with 
William  Shatner  in  the  Star  Trek  epi- 
sode “The  Enemy  Within.”  Did  you 
recognize  Trek  as  a particularly  good 
forum  for  sf  and  fantasy? 

Matheson:  Gene  Roddenberry  [the 
show’s  creator  and  producer]  wanted 
to  get  all  of  the  top  science  fiction  peo- 
ple to  work  on  Star  Trek,  which  was  a 
nice  idea.  I think  that  what  he  discov- 
ered was  that  however  talented  those 
prose  writers  were,  an  awful  lot  of 
them  couldn’t  do  scripts.  I was  not 
oveijoyed  with  what  Roddenberry  and 
his  people  did  with  “The  Enemy 
Within.”  They  did  rewrites  on  it 
without  my  consultation. 

TZ:  How  did  the  aired  version  differ 
from  your  original? 

Matheson:  I went  into  much  more  in- 
tricate detail  about  what  I was  most  in- 
terested in:  the  dividing  of  Kirk’s  good 
and  evil  self.  Side  stories,  which  they 


[a  TV  movie  starring  Dick  Van  Dyke], 
which  has  been  called  the  definitive 
study  of  an  alcoholic. 

TZ:  Your  Star  Trek  story  seems 
typical  of  your  work  in  that  its  plot  de- 
rives from  a relatively  simple  premise. 
Matheson:  Yes,  my  stories  don’t  go 
way  out.  They  have  to  be  contempo- 
rary. Very  rarely  do  my  stories  not  t^e 
place  in  the  present;  Star  Trek  was  an 
exception.  I only  find  fantasy  intrigu- 
ing when  it  springs  out  of  a recogniz- 
able situation.  George  Clayton  Johnson 
once  said  that  the  typical  Richard 
Matheson  story  is  where  a husband  and 
wife  are  sitting  down  to  have  coffee  and 
cake  when  something  strange  pops  out 
of  the  sugar  bowl.  I just  think  that  peo- 
ple identify  with  fantasy  more  if  you 
can  get  the  story  closer  to  their  daily 
lives. 

TZ:  A short  while  before  you  did  “The 
Enemy  Within,”  you  did  Die!  Die!  My 
Darling— one  of  several  adaptations 


"People  Identify  with  fantasy  more  If  you  can  get  the  story  closer  to  their  dally 
lives.  George  Clayton  Johnson  once  said  that  the  typical  Richard  Matheson 
story  Is  where  a hustxind  and  wife  are  sitting  down  to  have  coffee  and  cake 
when  something  strange  pops  out  of  the  sugar  bowl. " 


always  seemed  to  have,  bore  me.  I 
know  that  I must  have  had  the  subplot 
with  Sulu  and  some  others  being 
trapped  down  on  the  planet,  but  prob- 
ably not  as  much  as  was  featured  in  the 
filmed  episode. 

TZ:  Roddenberry  has  said  many  times 
that  ever  since  “The  Enemy  Within” 
was  aired,  it’s  been  used  by  psychia- 
trists to  show  mental  patients  the  dif- 
ference between  good  and  evil. 
Matheson:  I didn’t  know  that,  but  it 
also  happened  with  The  Morning  After 


that  you’ve  done  in  your  career.  Since 
you  had  used  a novel.  The  Shrinking 
Man,  as  your  ticket  to  Hollywood,  did 
you  ever  feel  guilty  about  possibly  de- 
priving another  writer  of  the  same 
chance? 

Matheson:  If  I had  ever  thought  of 
that,  I would  have  just  assumed  that 
the  original  writer  had  either  written  a 
script  that  wasn’t  acceptable  or  didn’t 
care  to  write  one.  The  Devil  Rides  Out’s 
author,  Dennis  Wheatley,  was  so  well 
known  that  if  he  had  wanted  to  do  the 


15 


Tlichard  Matheson  | 

; i 


i 


I script  for  its  film  version  [also  known  as 
I The  Devil’s  Bride],  I’m  sure  that  he 
could  have.  In  fact,  Wheatley  is  one  of 
the  writers  who  wrote  me  to  tell  me 
how  pleased  he  was  with  my  adapta- 
tion, because  it  stuck  very  close  to  his 
book.  I take  it  as  a responsibility  when 
I’m  adapting  somebody’s  work  to  stay 
as  close  to  it  as  possible  and  not  throw 
my  own  ego  into  it  or  change  it  unless 
it’s  absolutely  necessary.  Generally 
that’s  never  happened,  because  I won’t 
accept  an  adaptation  job  unless  I think 
that  the  original  source  can  essentially 
remain  unchanged.  If  it’s  one  of  those 
situations  where  the  producers  say, 
“We’re  going  to  throw  everything  out 
and  just  use  the  basic  idea,”  I won’t 
take  the  assignment.  I don’t  see  the 
point  in  buying  a book  unless  it  can  be 
adapted  almost  per  se.  With  The  Morn- 
ing After,  I made  considerable  changes 
in  the  main  character  because  jp  the 
book  he  was  really  a son  of  a bitch.  The 
book  was  more  clinical  and  devasta- 
ting. I knew  that  no  audience  would  be 
able  to  identify  and  care  for  the 
character  if  I left  him  that  way.  I made 
the  character  as  nice  as  he  could  be, 
with  the  one  flaw  that  he  was  an 
alcoholic  — which  is,  of  course,  very 
often  the  case. 

TZ:  Maybe  one  of  the  reasons  Dick 
Van  Dyke  was  so  effective  in  the  role 
was  that  he’d  actually  been  an  alcoholic 
himself. 

Matheson:  Nobody  knew  it  at  the 
time.  I spoke  to  him  on  the  set  and  he 
said  that  he  was  astounded  when  my 
script  was  sent  to  him,  because  he  had 
kept  his  alcoholism  a secret  except 
from  those  immediately  around  him. 
He  wondered  if  people  had  been  look- 
ing through  his  window. 

TZ:  I notice,  in  looking  over  your 
career,  that  there  seems  to  be  a period 
in  the  middle  sixties  when  you  weren’t 
doing  Einything. 

Matheson:  Well,  I never  took  a vaca- 
tion, because  I had  a family  to  support. 
I was  either  working  on  projects  that 
never  got  produced  or  writing  a book. 
It  took  me  ten  years  to  finish  Hell 
House.  Ray  Russell  told  me  that  Hell 
House  read  like  it  was  written  by  three 
different  writers.  It  probably  was, 
considering  how  long  I took  to  com- 
plete it. 

TZ:  A lot  of  people  have  often 
wondered  if  Hell  House  was  influenced 
by  Shirley  Jackson’s  The  Haunting  of 
Hill  House. 

Matheson:  I didn’t  realize  at  the  time 


how  close  my  title  or  basic  concept  of 
having  four  people  go  to  a haunted 
house  was  to  her  book’s.  I think  I was 
aware  that  I didn’t  want  the 
mysterious  happenings  to  wind  up  be- 
ing the  result  of  someone’s  screwed-up 
psyche.  In  HiM  House,  the  whole  thing 
is  the  result  of  one  of  the  character’s 
subconscious. 

TZ:  Were  you  happy  with  the  film  ver- 
sion, The  Legend  of  Hell  Housel 
Matheson:  1110  first  time  I saw  it,  I 
was  horrified,  which  is  usually  the  case 
with  my  films.  After  a while,  my  reac- 
tion sort  of  mellowed.  The  Legend  of 
Hell  House  has  never  really  knocked  me 
out,  though.  Much  of  that,  however, 
was  my  own  fault.  After  all,  it  was  my 
script.  I eliminated  a lot  of  the  novel’s 
strong,  meaty  stuff.  I mean,  in  the 
book,  I was  writing  about  a house  that 
was  a really  terrible  place  where  horri- 
ble people  had  done  horrible  things: 
murder,  cannibalism.  . . Hell  House 
was  also  the  only  really  sexy  book  that  I 
ever  wrote.  For  me,  it  was  extraordi- 
narily explicit.  Of  course,  I wouldn’t 
have  included  any  of  those  factors 
unless  I thought  that  they  were  essen- 
tial to  Hell  House’s  story,  but  for  the 
movie,  I left  most  of  them  out.  Then 
again,  at  the  time,  we  didn’t  have  much 
of  a choice.  For  one  thing,  back  then, 
there  was  censorship  in  movies.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  was  Stanley  Chase  who 
felt  that  we  shouldn’t  use  the  sexual 
stuff.  He  told  me  that  if  “in  these 
enlightened  times”  The  Legend  of  Hell 
House  tried  to  say  that  sex  orgies  and 
things  like  that  contributed  to  the 
house’s  horrors,  we’d  be  hooted  out  of 
the  theater.  Another  problem  with  The 
Legend  of  Hell  House  is  that  it  was— as 
often  happens— too  short;  there  wasn’t 
enough  story.  Hell  House  had  been 
referred  to  as  “the  Mount  Everest”  of 
haunted  houses,  but  in  the  picture  the 
characters  solved  its  mystery  so  simply 
that  it  seemed  barely  an  anthill. 

TZ:  A lot  of  Hell  House’s  fans  were 
disappointed  by  the  film  version. 
Matheson:  I can  understand  that. 
Another  element  that  might  have  both- 
ered them,  as  it  did  me,  was  that  the 
movie  turned  most  of  HeU  House’s 
characters  into  kids.  In  my  book,  the 
leading  characters  are  in  their  forties. 
My  original  dream  for  Hell  House’s  film 
version  was  to  have  Richard  Burton 
and  Elizabeth  Taylor— they  were  still 
married  at  the  time— as  the  male  and 
female  mediums,  and  Rod  Steiger  and 
Claire  Bloom— who  were  also  still 


together— as  the  scientist  and  wife— in 
a really  class  production.  'That  might 
have  worked  extremely  well.  The 
Legend  of  Hell  House’s  cast  did  a nice 
acting  job,  but,  for  example,  Pamela 
Franklin  looked  extremely  young.  I 
guess,  though,  that  the  main  reason 
why  the  book’s  readers  might  not  have 
taken  a shine  to  the  movie  was  because 
so  much  of  my  story  had  been  left  out.  I 
must  say  again  that  this  was  equally  my 
fault. 

TZ:  How  did  you  feel  about  Roddy 
McDowall’s  beinjj  cast  in  the  picture? 
Matheson:  Age- wise  he  was  all  right, 
but  he  still  looked  young.  Maybe  that 
man  will  start  looking  old  when  he’s 
ninety.  McDowall’s  just  one  of  those 
people  who’s  perennially  young. 

TZ:  The  first  Night  Gallery  that  you 
did  was  “The  Big;  Surprise.”  Was  it  fun 
working  with  Rod  Serling  again? 
Matheson:  I didn’t  even  see  Rod, 
because  I don’t  think  that  Rod  was  par- 
ticularly happy  'vith  Night  Galleiy.  I 
also  don’t  think  he  had  the  control  over 
the  show  that  he’d  had  on  Twilight 
Zone.  I only  dealt  with  the  series’s  pro- 
ducer, Jack  Laird.  I did  a few  shows  for 
him,  including  a total  shooting  script 
that  was  never  used.  It  concerned  a 
psychiatrist  who  had  a patient  whose 
dreams  were  taldng  material  form.  I 
was  watching  the  other  two  shows  that 
I did,  “The  Funeral”  and  “The  Big  Sur- 
prise,” on  tape  iJie  other  night.  “The 
Funeral’s”  first  part  is  kind  of  cute,  but 
it  falls  apart  in  the  end.  I’m  glad  to  say, 
though,  that  “The  Big  Surprise”  holds 
up  pretty  well.  In  fact,  I hadn’t  remem- 
bered that  Jeaniiot  Szwarc  [its  direc- 
tor] added  a circular  ending,  which  was 
a nice  touch. 

TZ : How  satisfied  were  you  with  the  tv 
movie  The  Stranger  Within,  which  was 
based  on  yom*  very  powerful  story 
“Mother  by  Protest”  [also  known  as 
‘"rrespass”]? 

Matheson:  I didn’t  like  it.  I thought 
the  film’s  casting  was  bad.  Barbara 
Eden  didn’t  have  enough  bite  in  her, 
and  the  neighbor  couple  was  played  by 
comedy  actors!  George  Grizzard  was 
the  only  one  I crired  for.  I don’t  think 
that  Lee  Phillips,  its  director,  who  has 
done  some  good  stuff,  really  cared  for 
the  story. 

TZ:  Was  it  difficult  to  adapt  your  work 
for  tv? 

Matheson:  No,  probably  because  my 
stories  were  done  in  a format  very  simi- 
lar to  that  of  scripts:  description  and 
then  dialogue. 


1 


i 

I 


16 


TZ:  Did  you  ever  mind  being  limited  to 
the  subject  matter  that  tv  could  cover? 
Matheson:  No.  Maylxi  that  was  be- 
cause of  the  subject  matter  that  I was 
handling.  I didn’t  realhse  it  at  the  time 
that  I was  writing  the  telefilms,  but  the 
scripts  that  I enjoyed  working  on  hit 
right  on  the  nose  of  what  was  being  suc- 
cessful on  tv:  women-in-jeopardy  stor- 
ies. I was  always  able  to  stick  within  the 
Standards  and  Practices  list  of  things 
you  couldn’t  say,  without  having  to 
j alter  the  basic  content  of  my  scripts, 
j My  only  lament  has  always  been  that 
: the  material  wasn’t  usually  well 
‘ handled. 

!TZ:  In  the  1970s  your  forte  was 
■writing  the  made-for-tv  films.  Your 
■ first,  of  course,  was  Lhisl,  perhaps  the 
i most  famous  tv  movie  <3ver  made. 
Matheson:  Universal  also  made  a lot 
of  money  with  it  as  a thieatrical  release 
outside  of  America. 

TZ:  Didn’t  the  origins  of  the  original 
short  story  “Duel”  ha\'e  something  to 
do  with  Charles  Beaum  ont? 

Matheson:  No.  I was  playing  golf  with 
Jerry  Sohl  one  day  when  we  found  out 
that  Kennedy  had  been  assassinated. 
We  broke  off  our  game  and  headed  for 
home.  As  we  were  driving,  muttering 
and  moaning  about  the  assassination,  a 
truck  started  tailgating  us  on  the  nar- 
row pass  we  were  driving  through.  This 
went  on  for  miles  and  miles  with  us 
screaming  infuriatedly,  until  we  finally 
pulled  over  to  the  side  of  the  road  and 
let  the  son  of  a bitch  pass  us.  While  we 
were  stopped,  I wrote  the  idea  for 
“Duel”  down  on  the  b8.ck  of  a piece  of 
I mail  that  Jerry  had  in  iche  car.  I didn’t 
-write  the  story,  though,  until  a few 
I years  later. 

|TZ:  IVas  the  production  of  Dtiel 
smooth  going? 

Matheson:  It  was  one  of  those  things 
that  worked  out  in  a strange  kind  of 
backwards  way.  Initially  Universal  got 
excited  by  my  script,  and  for  a while 
they  were  going  to  do  jDicel  as  a major 
theatrical  motion  picture.  Then  they 
couldn’t  get  a major  star  or  director. 
Shortly  before  the  commencement  of 
shooting,  George  Eckstein,  Duel’s  pro- 
ducer, said,  “Well,  so  far  we’ve  cast  the 
I truck.”  They  finally  had  to  shut  down 
McCloud  and  put  Dennis  Weaver  in  it 
because  they  couldn’t  get  any  other  ac- 
j tor.  As  it  turned  out,  that  was  fortui- 
' tous,  because  Weaver  was  marvelous. 
One  funny  thing  that  involved  my  con- 
tribution to  Duel  was  that  I had  been 
worried  that  my  story  was  too  short 


Matheson  on  the  set  of  Somewhere  In 
Time,  filmed  at  a Michigan  resort. 

"When  fantasy  films  are  done  well, 
nothing  can  touch  them. " 

and  that  it  might  have  to  be  padded  by 
bringing  in  the  man’s  wife.  Fortunate- 
ly, George  Eckstein  turned  me  down  on 
that  one. 

TZ:  What  did  you  think  when  they 
named  as  director  this  young,  imknown 
guy  named  Steven  Spielberg  [who  has 
since  helmed  Jaws,  Close  Encounters, 
and  Raiders  of  the  Lost  ArkJ! 
Matheson:  I think  that  George  Eck- 
stein was  the  first  person  that  I dis- 
cussed that  with  at  all.  He  said  some- 
thing like,  “Well,  they’ve  given  me  this 
young  hotshot  director.”  I only  met 
Spielberg  one  day  on  the  set.  Luckily 
Steven  was  shooting  Duel  out  in  the 
desert,  well  away  from  the  studio  exec- 
utives. Days  went  by  before  they  really 
knew  what  he  was  doing.  Steven  was 
well  into  shooting  by  the  time  the  ex- 
ecutives found  out  about  his  approach. 
At  that  point,  they  really  couldn’t 
change  it.  It’s  quite  possible  that  they 
wouldn’t  have  let  him  tell  his  story  the 
way  he  did  if  they  had  been  aware  of 
what  he  was  doing.  The  entire  produc- 
tion of  Duel  was  a happy  cluster  of  cir- 
cumstances that  made  it  work  out  as 
well  as  it  did. 

TZ:  There’s  been  a rumor  for  a long 
time  that  you  were  in  the  desert  for 
Duel’s  shooting  and,  at  one  point,  took 
over  its  directing. 

Matheson:  (Laughter.)  Where  do 
these  rumors  start?  I was  only  out  in 
the  desert  for  one  day  when  Steven  was 
shooting  the  cafe  sequence.  The  casting 
was  so  wonderful  that  I thought  the 
producers  had  just  rented  the  use  of  the 
cafe  and  that  Steven  was  using  real 
people.  They  looked  so  authentic  I 
didn’t  realize  they  were  actors.  There 
was  another  rumor,  here  in  Los 
Angeles  for  a while,  that  I never  do  re- 


writes. If  there’s  anything  I do,  it’s 
rewrite  interminably  for  anybody  I’m 
working  for,  as  long  as  it  makes  the 
script  better.  All  that  these  rumors 
need  to  get  started  is  for  one  person  to 
say  something  false.  Then  it  gets  all 
blown  out  of  proportion. 

TZ:  Like  many  of  the  filmmakers  who 
came  into  prominence  in  the  early  and 
mid-seventies,  Steven  Spielberg  is  said 
to  hold  a special  fondness  for  people 
who  helped  him  out  early  in  his  career. 
Since  Duel  really  pushed  him  over*  the 
top,  what  with  its  success  in  Europe 
and  on  tv,  it’s  always  surprised  me  that 
he  hasn’t  in  later  years  gone  back  to 
you. 

Matheson:  As  I recall,  I was  asked  to 
do  a rewrite  on  Jaws  and  I couldn’t  do  it 
because  I was  involved  with  something 
else.  Then  I remember  going  to  see 
Julia  and  Michael  Phillips,  the  produc- 
ers, and  they  asked  me  if  I’d  like  to  do  a 
screenplay  about  flying  saucers.  I told 
them  that  I wasn’t  really  interested  in 
UFOs.  That  film  became,  naturally, 

' Close  Encounters  of  the  Third  Kind. 

. More  recently,  Steven  called  me  about 
: making  a film  out  of  “Little  Girl  Lost,” 
though  I haven’t  heard  from  him  again 
on  that.  I’m  sure  he’s  still  aware  of  me. 

I was  over  at  Universal  doing  some 
writing  on  Somewhere  in  Time  when 
Verna  Fields  [a  Universal  vice  presi- 
dent] suggested  that  I work  in  Steven’s 
a little  aggravated  when  I read  about 
“Steven  Spielberg’s  Duel,”  because  I 
wrote  a very  precise  and  detailed  script 
that  Steven  followed  closely.  He,  of 
course,  did  a wonderful  job  directing  it. 
He  has  a great  eye. 

TZ:  The  man  whom  you  did  most  of 
your  tv  movies  with  was  Dan  Curtis. 
How  did  you  first  get  to  know  him? 
Matheson:  That’s  kind  of  an  amusing 
story.  Dan  had  tried  to  purchase  the 
film  rights  to  Hell  House  for  a ridicu- 
lously low  sum  of  money.  I had  some- 
how acquired  an  intense  irritation  for 
him  because  of  that.  Subsequently, 
when  they  asked  me  to  do  an  adapta- 
tion of  The  Night  Stalker  and  told  me 
that  it  would  be  for  Curtis,  I said,  “No 
way.”  I didn’t  want  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  it.  They  finally  talked  me  into 
it,  but  I told  them  that  I didn’t  want  to 
Jiave  any  dealings  with  Curtis  on  it— 
which  was  absurd  on  my  part,  since  he  | 
was  The  Night  Stalker’s  producer.  ! 
Somehow,  I finally  met  with  Dan.  I was  s 
terribly  cold  to  him,  and,  finding  out  j 
later  what  kind  of  a volcanic  personali-  | 
ty  he  has.  I’m  amazed  that  he  didn’t  j 


17 


Richard  Matheson 


leap  across  his  desk  and  rip  my  throat 
out.  Dan  has  an  incredible  temper.  Ap- 
parently he  had  so  much  respect  for  me 
as  a writer  that  he  endur^  my  cold 
reaction  to  him.  We  eventually  made  ! 
our  peace  and  went  on  to  become  j 
j friends.  j 

j TZ:  I’ve  heard  that  the  book  which  T/ie  i 
I Night  Stalker  was  based  on,  Jeff  Rice’s 
The  Kolchak  Tapes,  was  pretty  horren- 
dous. Is  that  true? 

! Matheson:  The  Kolchak  Tapes  wasn’t  i 
: too  bad;  it  got  published.  I used  all  of  its  ■ 

: action  sequences  as  they  originally  ' 
' were.  The  only  main  thing  I changed 
was  its  characterization.  In  the  book,  ^ 
i Kolchak  was  a very  heavy,  sloppy  | 
‘ European  type  who  already  believed  in  j 
' vampires.  I just  went  back  to  the  old  | 
' Front  Paye  type  character  of  the  brash  ^ 
reporter  who  believes  in  his  story,  ; 
period. 

TZ:  Did  you  envision  Kolchak  as  a 
comical  character? 

Matheson:  Sure.  I always  envision 
’ most  of  my  characters  that  way.  That’s 
the  way  life  is.  People  just  don’t  walk 
through  life  in  a state  of  total  gloom,  no  ; 
matter  what’s  going  on.  They  want  to  | 
have  a laugh  once  in  a while.  I’ve  never 
felt  that  I’m  a “pure”  writer  in  the 
' sense  that,  creatively,  the  only  “pure”  ; 

literature  is  that  which  ignores  reality  ' 
: and  all  of  its  ramifications.  I think  that  , 
this  belief  of  mine  has  to  do  with  , 
Mahler,  my  favorite  composer.  He  said  ; 
that  he  did  not  write  what  could  be  con- 
sidered pure  music  because  he  threw  in 
elements  right  out  of  life,  some  of 
which  were  nice  and  some  of  which 
were  tasteless.  Mahler  did  that  delib- 
erately, because  he  wanted  to  create  a 
full  musical  picture  of  the  world  the 
way  he  saw  it.  I guess  that  that’s  the 
sort  of  thing  I do. 

TZ:  Then  you  felt  Darren  McGavin 
was  okay  for  Kolchak? 

Matheson:  He  was  perfect.  I’ve  | 
! always  liked  his  acting.  j 

TZ:  The  Night  Stalker  became  one  of  ! 
I the  highest-rated  tv  movies  of  all  time  i 
I when  it  was  aired.  Did  it  surprise  you?  i 
' Matheson:  I never  expected  it.  I ! 
I mean.  The  Night  Stalker  was  up  there  ; 

with  Ben-Hur!  > 

' TZ:  Because  of  that  success,  ABC ; 
' commissioned  a sequel.  The  Night 
Strangler,  about  a murderous  doctor. 

; Matheson:  I had  wanted  to  make  The 
Night  Strangler’s  killer  turn  out  to  be  i 
Jack  the  Ripper,  but  because  of  my 
friend  Robert  Bloch’s  classic  story, 
“Yours 'Truly,  Jack  the  Ripper”— which 

is 


deals  with  a similar  theme— we  decided 
not  to  do  that.  Before  we  reached  that 
decision,  though,  I called  Bob  to  ask 
if  it  would  disturb  him  if  we  used 
Jack  the  Ripper.  I could  tell  from  his 
tone  of  voice  that  it  would  have 
bothered  him.  We  wound  up  making 
the  killer  a crazy  scientist.  I still  think 
that  it  would  have  been  better  for 
Kolchak  to  find  out,  once  he  got  down 
to  the  nitty-gritty,  that  the  murderer 
was  Jack  the  Ripper. 

TZ:  Why  didn’t  you  ever  get  involved 
with  The  Night  Stalker  tv  series? 
Matheson:  I had  enough  trouble  com- 
ing up  with  the  sequel!  I was  offered  the 
job  of  story  editor  on  it,  as  I was  with 
Night  Gallery,  but  I couldn’t  see  how 
they  could  come  up  with  a new  monster 
every  week.  It  would  have  been  terribly 
boring  to  me.  And  it  turned  out  that 
Dan  Curtis  hadn’t  made  an  arrange- 
ment, so  he  didn’t  end  up  producing  the 
series  anyway.  I think  that  if  Dan  had 
produced  The  Night  Stalker,  he  would 
have  used  the  third  Kolchak  movie  that 
Bill  Nolan  and  I wrote,  TheNightkiller. 
It  took  place  in  Hawaii. 

TZ:  Was  that  the  thing  with  the 
robots? 

Matheson:  Yes.  It  was  about  high- 
powered  politicians  in  Hawaii  being  re- 
placed by  androids.  When  we  wrote  it, 
that  concept  hadn’t  been  used  as  it  has 
been  in  recent  years.  I don’t  know  why 
they  didn’t  make  The  Nightkiller, 
because  it  was  a great  script.  They  were 
going  to  make  it.  We  were  all  set  to  go 
to  Hawaii  when  they  decided  to  do  the 
series  instead. 

TZ:  Was  The  Night  Stalker  series 
proof  to  you  that  you  cannot  do  a con- 
tinuing character  weekly  horror  pro- 
gram? 

Matheson:  Yes.  I think  that  the  series 
became  labored.  Occasionally  it  came 
up  with  a good  episode;  generally,  how- 
ever, that  type  of  continuing  character 
horror  series  is  just  too  hard  to  do. 

TZ:  Another  tv  film  you  did  with  Dan 
Curtis  was  Trilogy  of  Terror,  an  adap- 
tation of  three  of  your  stories.  I’ve 
always  wondered  why,  since  they  were 
all  your  stories,  you  only  adapted  the 
last  one,  “Prey,”  and  William  Nolan 
did  the  other  two. 

Matheson:  For  one,  I thought  that 
“The  Likeness  of  Julie”  [about  a home- 
ly teacher— in  reality  a succubus— who 
seduces  her  students  and  then  kills 
them]  was  kind  of  sensational;  I didn’t 
care  for  it  too  much.  “Millicent  and 
Therese”  [about  two  sisters  who  don’t 


like  each  other]  was  based  on  a story 
only  a page  and  a half  long.  I thought, 
“Oh,  God.  I can’t  get  ahalf-hour  script 
out  of  that!”  Bill  Nolan,  of  course,  did  a 
wonderful  job  ivith  both  of  them.  He 
came  to  them  with  a fresh  eye  and  I 
made  them  work.  Being  the  bad  guy  | 
that  I am,  I kept  the  best  story,  “Prey”  ; 
[produced  as  “Amelia”],  for  myself!  j 
TZ:  “Amelia”  is  perhaps  one  of  the  j 
most  terrifying  stories  ever  done  on  tv. 

1 Matheson:  Bill’s  always  said  that  he  , 
I did  these  two  wonderful  adaptations  ' 
■ and  nobody  remembers  them!  I was 
I just  watching  “Amelia”  on  tape  about  a ; 
i week  ago.  It  re:dly  holds  up  well.  1 
i TZ:  Because  the  story  was  so  intense,  | 
i was  there  a problem  with  the  censor,  or  i 
j did  we  just  think  we  were  seeing  more  ; 
i than  we  were? 

I Matheson:  Dan  Curtis  once  showed  ^ 
; me  the  first  cut  of  “ Amelia,  ” and  it  was  '' 
more  intense.  He  had  to  cut  it  down. 

TZ:  Do  you  think  it’s  just  as  well  that  it 
wasn’t  more  bloody?  i 

Matheson:  Yes,  “Amelia”  works  fine 
the  way  that  it  is.  I think  that  Dan  may 
; have  gotten  carried  away  with  the 
I blood  when  he  was  first  shooting  it. 

• TZ:  I guess  that  one  thing  that  you 
believe  with  horror  stories  is  that  less  is 
. very  often  more. 

Matheson:  Absolutely.  In  fact,  that’s 
one  of  the  things  that  Universal  agrees 
with  me  about  on  Jaws  III.  They  don’t 
want  to  have  too  many  killings.  They 
want  to  avoid  a total  bloodfest,  which  is 
, fine  by  me. 

TZ:  Plus,  Universal  needs  the  PG 
rating!  * 

Matheson:  I gjess  so.  It  seems  that 
unless  you  have  frontal  nudity  or  cer- 
tain bad  words  in  a picture,  you  always  , 
get  the  PG.  You  think  that  the  sight  of  a 
shark  swallowing  a kid  would  immedi- 
: ately  earn  you  an  R,  but  that’s  not  the 
; Way  the  MPAA  works. 

: TZ:  With  Trihgy  of  Terror  and 
i another  telefilm.  Dead  of  Night,  you  ; 
! and  Dan  were  trying  to  launch  a new  i 
! horror  antholoj^  series.  Is  the  an-  i 
j thology  form  the  only  way  that  you  can  , 
I see  a continuing:  horror  series  work?  ‘ 
Matheson:  Sure.  I also  think  that  an  ! 
! anthology  series  like  that  can  only  work 
I in  the  half-hour  format.  All  of  the 
' stories  in  Trilogy  of  Terror  and  Dead  of 
Night  fit  into  hialf-hour  slots.  I think 
that  the  hour  length  for  anthology  pro- 
grams is  a bastard  form.  It’s  too  long  to 
do  the  type  of  story  that  you  could  on 
Twilight  Zone  aad  too  short  for  a story 
that  has  any  more  substence.  The  hour 


format  is  terribly  in-between.  Twilight 
Zone  is  so  popular  that  I don’t  know 
why  the  networks  have  become  con- 
vinced that  the  half-hour  form  is  only 
suitable  for  comedy.  I don’t  know  why 
they  haven’t  gone  back  and  tried  to  do  a 
show  with  the  Twiligh  t Zone  format. 
TZ:  Karen  Black  starred  in  Trilogy  of 
Terror  and  appeared  in  another  tele- 
film of  yours,  The  Strange  Possession,  of 
Mrs.  Oliver.  Is  she,  like  William 
Shatner,  someone  whose  acting  you  ad- 
mire? 

Matheson:  Yes,  Karen  Black  is  a very 
interesting  actress.  Shie  has  a tendency 
to  go  off  the  deep  end  once  in  a while, 
but  when  she’s  on,  sh(j’s  really  great. 
TZ:  So  then,  you  generally  liked  the 
films  you  did  with  Dan  Curtis? 
Matheson:  Yeah,  but  they  were  often 
hurt  by  bad  casting— which  wasn’t 
Dan’s  fault,  because  he’s  extraor- 
dinarily good  at  casting.  It  was  just 
that  the  network  had  this  rule  where  a 
producer  was  required  to  use  certain 
actors  because  they  had  a high  profile 
in  the  public  eye. 

TZ:  Did  you  like  Cloris  Leachman  in 
Dying  Room  Only"! 

Matheson:  She  was  fantastic!  Dying 
Room  Only  is  the  only  script  I’ve  ever 
done  that  I thought  got  better  treat- 
ment than  it  deserved.  My  teleplay  was 
just  an  imitative  suspense  stoiy.  Allan 
Epstein  was  Dying  Room  Only’s  pro- 
ducer, and  he  put  Philip  Leacock  on  it 
as  director.  Every  single  thing  about 
the  film  was  wonderful. 

TZ:  As  a writer,  you’ve  collaborated 
with  the  late  Charles  Beaumont,  with 
William  F.  Nolan,  and  most  recently 
with  your  son,  Richard  Christian 
Matheson.  Do  you  fir  d that  there’s  an 
advantage  to  collaborating? 

Matheson:  Yes— from  an  idea  stand- 
point. Collaborating  is  valuable  if  each 
person  involved  provides  something 
that  the  other  one  doesn’t  have.  But  if 
you’re  both  equally  strong  in  the  same 
areas,  then  you’re  really  vitiating  your 
abilities.  I used  to  belong  to  a corpora- 
tion called  The  Green  Hand,  with 
George  Clayton  Johnson  as  its  presi- 
dent and  Theodore  Sturgeon  and  Jerry 
Sohl  as  its  other  tw'O  members.  We 
were  going  to  be  a creative  company 
that  wrote  entire  tek^vision  series.  We 
had  a suite  of  offices  in  Beverly  Hills 
and  were  meeting  with  all  of  the  top  ex- 
ecutives around  town  and  making 
deals.  On  the  idea  level,  we  were  really 
clicking— but  when  it  came  to  four 
disparate  minds  putting  something 


I 


"/  guess  rm  sort  of  a private  person.  I 
live  In  a place  called  Hidden  Hills,  which 
should  give  you  an  Idea  of  my  type 
of  personality." 

down  on  paper,  it  didn’t  work.  I 
generally  do  much  better  when  I’m 
writing  by  myself. 

TZ:  Considering  all  that  you’ve  done 
in  your  career,  if  you  wanted  to,  you 
probably  could  have  become  a pro- 
ducer. 

Matheson:  I suppose  I could  have.  I 
did  turn  down  many  story  editor  jobs.  I 
guess  I’m  sort  of  a private  person.  I live 
in  a place  called  Hidden  Hills,  which 
should  give  you  an  idea  of  my  type  of 
personality.  I enjoy  writing’s  isolation. 
I could  see  becoming  a producer  merely 
to  protect  what  I’ve  written— which, 
come  to  think  of  it,  really  isn’t  that  bad 
of  an  idea.  I actu^ly  think  I might  be 
better  as  a producer  than  as  a director, 
because  the  temperament  of  a producer 
is  closer  to  that  of  a writer. 

TZ:  In  the  early  1970s,  when  you  were 
working  on  all  of  those  horror  projects, 
you  were  also  writing  Bid  Time 
Return.  Was  one  of  the  reasons  that 
you  chose  to  do  Bid  Time  Return,  a 
very  gentle  fantasy— so  that  you  could 
get  a break  from  all  of  the  horror  stuff? 
Matheson:  I don’t  think  that  it  was  as 
simple  as  that.  I had  gotten  the  idea  for 
Bid  Time  Return  on  a trip  with  my 
wife.  I think  I first  started  working  on 
it  in  1971,  because  the  book  chapters 
that  take  place  in  the  first  part  are 
dated  in  1971,  which  is  when  I was 
writing  them  down  at  the  Coronado 
Hotel.  The  second  part  of  Bid  Time 
Return,  which  takes  place  in  the  past, 
was  harder  to  write  than  the  first 
because  it  required  a lot  of  research.  It 
took  me  three  to  four  years  to  finish 
Bid  Time  Return,  because  I was  also  in- 
volved with  all  of  the  other  stuff. 

TZ:  A lot  of  critics  have  accused  you  of 
borrowing  concepts  for  the  novel  from 
Jack  Finney’s  Time  and  Again. 
Matheson:  I don’t  really  think  that 
there  were  all  that  many  similarities.  I 
was  very  aware  of  trying  to  avoid  copy- 


ing Time  and  Again.  I even  wrote  to 
Jack  when  I was  planning  the  book, 
asking  him  if  he  minded  if  I used  his 
name  in  the  story  for  the  master  of  the 
time-travel  method  Richard  Collier 
uses.  He  told  me  that  of  course  I could 
use  it.  Jack  actually  read  my 
manuscript  before  it  was  published, 
and  he  liked  it  a lot.  Time  and  Again,  of 
course,  is  absolutely  marvelous.  I’ve 
discovered,  consequently,  that  Jack 
wrote  it  over  a vast  amount  of  time.  He 
started  it  when  he  was  quite  young. 
The  only  element  I inissed  in  Time  and 
Again  was  a more  complete  examina- 
tion of  Jack’s  main  character’s  relation- 
ship with  the  girl.  I wanted  to  make 
that  my  approach.  I’ve  written  science 
fiction  where  the  hero  time-travels  for- 
ward, but  I really  didn’t  find  that  too  in- 
teresting. In  fact,  the  only  instance 
where  I find  time-travel  stories  really 
interesting  is  when  they  involve  a 
romance.  Otherwise,  for  me,  there’s 
really  no  point  to  it. 

TZ:  Were  you  familiar  with  Finney’s 
other  writing? 

Matheson:  Yes.  As  I’ve  said  many 
times  before.  Jack  Finney’s  my 
favorite  fantasy  writer.  In  fact,  he’s 
written  a lot  of  books  that  aren’t  fan- 
tasy at  all.  Jack’s  simply  a very  good 
writer. 

TZ:  Your  last  novel  was  What  Dreams 
May  Come,  about  the  hereafter.  Was 
your  portrayal  of  the  afterlife  a product 
of  your  imagination? 

Matheson:  No.  I really  think  that 
that’s  what  will  happen  to  you  after 
you  die. 

TZ:  Aren’t  you  trying  to  get  a film 
made  out  of  What  Dreams  May  Come? 
Matheson:  I did  a script  on  it,  and 
Steven  Deutsch,  Somewhere  in  Time’s 
producer,  is  trying  to  get  financing  for 
it.  He’s  not  having  an  easy  time, 
though.  The  book  didn’t  really  sell  that 
well,  either.  I’m  beginning  to  think  that 
for  all  of  the  public’s  interest  in  books 
about  the  afterlife,  they’re  really  not 
ready  to  think  about  death  in  any  con- 
sistent way.  Mostly,  they  want  to  drink 
a can  of  beer,  watch  the  ballgame,  and 
forget  about  dying.  That’s  proven  by 
the  banal  conversations  that  take  place 
when  people  visit  someone  who’s  ter- 
minally ill.  Those  talks  border  on  the 
obscene.  That’s  not  to  say  that  I go 
charging  into  a dying  man’s  room  and 
say,  “Listen,  let  me  tell  you  all  about 
what  will  happen  to  you.’’  In  the  past 
few  years,  though,  when  that  t^e  of 
situation  has  involved  a close  friend,  I 


19 


Richard  Matheson 


have  made  discreet  inquiries  of  them  as 
to  what  it  feels  like  to  be  dying.  If  I 
found  out  that  they  weren’t  infuriated 
or  terrified  by  the  idea  of  death,  very 
often  I gave  them  a copy  of  What 
Dreams  May  Come,  because  I believe 
that  it’s  a totally  accurate  picture  of 
what  someone  can  expect  after  living 
on  this  planet. 

TZ:  What  Dreams  May  Come  reads 
almost  as  if  it  were  written  to  be  given 
to  someone  who  was  terminally  ill  so 
that  he’d  feel  better  about  his  fate. 
Matheson:  As  a matter  of  fact,  a 
woman  wrote  me  telling  me  that  she 
gave  a copy  of  What  Dreams  May  Come 
to  her  father,  who  was  dying.  He  had 
never  been  a churchgoer,  but  the  book 
made  him  feel  much  better.  There  were 
other  cases  like  that,  which  was  much 
more  important  to  me  than  whatever 
financial  success  What  Dreams  May 
Come  could  have  had.  ^ 

TZ:  Your  most  recent  television  work 
was  the  three-part  miniseries  based  on 
Ray  Bradbury’s  The  Martian  Chron- 
icles. I know  that  your  original  script 
for  its  second  installment  was 
nominated  by  the  Writers  Guild  for  an 
award,  so  what  went  wrong  with  your 
teleplay’s  transition  to  film? 

Matheson:  Well,  I wasn’t  completely 
satisfied  with  the  direction,  and  a lot  of 
its  casting  was  off.  Although  Chuck 
Fries  Productions  spent  a lot  of  money 
on  the  project,  they  didn’t  spend 
enough  money.  The  technicians  that  the 
miniseries  used  probably  could  have 
done  something  better  visually  with  a 
bigger  budget.  Mostly,  though,  I think 
that  The  Martian  Chronicles’  biggest 
problem  was  its  direction. 

TZ:  Did  they  change  much  of  ybur 
teleplay  during  shooting? 

Matheson:  In  Part  Two,  they  shifted 
things  around,  but  it  didn’t  really  make 
that  much  difference.  For  the  third  in- 
stallment, there  was  an  adaptation  of 
one  of  Ray’s  stories  that  I didn’t  write 
and  had  never  even  thought  of  using. 
Adding  that  story  was  strange,  because 
the  filmmakers  had  told  me  that  my 
original  script  was  too  long,  and  I’d  had 
to  cut  two  other  Bradbury  stories  that  I 
had  adapted.  Then,  apparently,  they 
discovered  that  Part  Three  was  too 
short,  so  they  had  somebody  adapt  that 
extra  segment. 

TZ:  Since  many  people  believe  that 
The  Martian  Chronicles’  beauty  is 
really  in  its  words,  wasn’t  it  perhaps 
dangerous  to  try  turning  it  into  a visual 
presentation? 


Matheson:  No,  because  there  are 
times  in  the  miniseries  when  its  visuals 
did' capture  the  book’s  atmosphere.  Ob- 
viously it  was  possible.  The  story  about 
the  fire  balloons  worked  well,  I 
thought. 

TZ:  It  must  have  been  nice,  after  the 
disappointment  of  seeing  how  your 
teleplay  had  been  filmed,  to  get  the 
Writers  Guild  nomination. 

Matheson:  Yeah.  The  odd  thing  was 
that  I didn’t  even  submit  my  script  for 
the  awards,  because  I hadn’t  liked  the 
way  that  the  miniseries  turned  out.  I 
had  also  become  so  imbued  with  the 
Emmys’  and  Oscars’  philosophy  where 
what  is  on  the  screen  determines  what 
the  award-voters  think  of  the  script, 
that  I guess  I had  kind  of  forgotten  that 
the  Writers  Guild  judges  original 
scripts  solely  on  their  own  merits.  In- 
terestingly, it  was  the  same  second  two 
hours  of  live  Martian  Chronicles  that 
turned  out  best  on  screen  as  well.  The 
only  other  nominee  for  the  award  that  I 
was  up  for  was  Ernest  Tidyman  for 
CBS’s  Jonestown  film,  but  I lost. 

TZ:  Has  your  experience  with  The 
Martian  Chronicles  turned  you  off  tv 
writing? 

Matheson:  No.  I’d  actually  like  to  try 
to  do  another  miniseries.  You  have  to 
remember  that  the  two  best  things  I’ve 
ever  had  were  done  on  tv:  Duel  and  The 
Morning  After— so  I have  nothing 
against  television.  For  a while  there, 
with  the  miniseries,  tv  was  doing  better 
things  than  the  movies. 

TZ:  Your  son,  Richard  Christian,  is 
now  trying  to  make  a name  for  himself 
in  films  and  television,  and  he’s  also 
written  fantasy  and  horror  tales.  Do 
you  think  it’s  hard  for  him,  as  your  son, 
to  forge  his  own  writing  career? 
Matheson:  It  would  only  be  hard  for 
Richard  if  he  tries  to  do  exactly  the 
same  things  that  I’ve  done.  When  he 
writes  a short  story,  there’s  bound  to 
be  a comparison,  but  he  doesn’t  usually 
write  in  exactly  the  same  areas  that  I 
do. 

TZ:  On  the  other  hand,  I guess  that 
you’ve  been  able  to  open  up  certain 
doors  for  him. 

Matheson:  Only  in  a limited  way. 
What  I have  been  able  to  do  is  help  give 
Richard  certain  shortcuts  in  the  sense 
that  he  grew  up  having  an  editor  in  the 
house. 

TZ:  Even  his  name  itself  might  open 
up  some  doors  for  him. 

Matheson:  Giving  him  my  name  was  a 
mistake  on  my  part.  No  one  should  ever 


name  their  son  after  themselves.  It’s  a 
horrible  thing  to  do  to  somebody. 

TZ:  With  your  own  career,  I under- 
stand that  you’re  trying  to  move  into 
writing  for  the  stage.  I know  that 
you’ve  just  finished  a play;  what’s  it 
called? 

Matheson:  The  title  that  I gave  it, 
which  I hope  is  kept,  is  Now  You  See  It. 
It’s  too  soon  for  me  to  publicly  synop- 
size  it,  but  basically  Now  YouSeelt  is  a 
mystery/suspense  story  in  the  style  of 
Sleuth  and  Deathtrap.  Its  main 
character  is  a miigician,  which  is  what 
inspired  the  play’s  title. 

TZ:  Has  the  play  been  picked  up? 
Matheson:  Yes,  it’s  been  optioned  by 
Gabe  Katzka.  It  will  be  produced  by 
Jules  Fisher  and  directed  by  Frank 
Dxmlop  for  Broadway.  We’re  just  look- 
ing now  for  an  actor  for  the  part  of  the 
magician  before  its  production  really 
gets  going.  I had  originally  envisioned 
his  being  played  by  Christopher  Plum 
mer,  but  the  character’s  age  will  vary  in 
accordance  to  v'ho  portrays  him.  If 
some  great  forly-five-year-old  stage 
actor  who  can  pull  in  a lot  of  people 
plays  the  part,  then  the  magician  will  be 
forty-five  years  old. 

TZ:  Are  you  a little  nervous  about  see- 
ing your  first  Broadway  play  produced? 
Matheson:  No.  I’m  just  a little  nerv- 
ous about  when  ^ve’re  going  to  get  an 
actor  and  get  the  play  on  the  boards. 
TZ:  Now  You  See  It  could  open  up  a 
whole  new  career  for  you. 

Matheson:  I hope  so.  My  wife  and  I 
like  the  theater  a lot.  I didn’t  use  to  like 
the  stage,  but  over  the  years  I’ve  ac- 
quired a taste  for  it.  One  of  the  nice 
things  about  it  is  the  power  it  gives  the 
writer,  which  I’ve  never  had  in  films 
and  television.  I also  like  the  fact  that 
theater  reduces  a story  to  its  basics: 
idea,  character,  and  dialogue.  You 
can’t  do  a lot  of  tricks  in  theater  like 
you  can  in  a film  like  Altered  States 
where,  after  seemg  it,  you  don’t  know 
if  you’ve  watched,  a movie  or  a special- 
effects  display. 

TZ:  Would  you  fly  out  to  New  York  for 
Now  You  See  It's  rehearsals? 
Matheson:  Yes.  I’d  be  living  in  New 
York  for  a while. 

TZ:  Do  you  know  when  this  might  take 
place? 

Matheson:  They  say  they  hope  to  go 
into  rehearsal  late  this  year. 

TZ:  Aren’t  you  also  working  on  a new 
novel? 

Matheson:  No,  but  I have  a new  one 
coming  out  from  Playboy  Press  called 


20 


Courtesy  James  H,  Burns 


Matheson  costumed  for  his  cameo  role  In  Somewhere  In  Time.  "There's  been  a 
glut  of  gory  films,  and  people  have  become  Jaded.  We  figured  fhaf  people 
would  be  looking  for  somefhing  different " 


Earthhound,  a psychological  ghost 
story.  I wrote  it  about  twelve  years  ago 
and  then  recently  did  a lot  of  rewriting 
on  it.  This  is  the  first  time 
Earthbound’s  been  published. 

TZ:  With  the  current,  interest  in  hor- 
ror fiction,  witnessiid  by  Stephen 
King’s  popularity,  you  could  probably 
sit  down  to  write  a new  novel  in  the 
style  that  seems  to  b<i  successful  now 
and  probably  make  a I’ortune. 
Matheson:  I have  a feeling  that 
although  horror  is  quite  popular  at  the 
moment,  it’s  played  itself  out  for  now. 
Fantasy  films  are  going  into  the  direc- 
tion of  make-believe— dragons  and  the 
like— and  I think  that,  the  same  thing 
will  happen  with  novels;  there  are  cer- 
tain connections  between  the  public’s 
taste  in  different  media.  Besides,  I did 
that  kind  of  horror/fantasy  writing 
twenty  years  ago.  Thfsre’d  really  be  no 
point  in  my  retreading  old  ground.  Un- 
fortunately, I also  thi  nk  that  most  of 
the  fantasy  ideas  that  I had  and  am  cur- 
rently coming  up  with  are— in  light  of 
what’s  going  on  in  the  world  today— ir- 
relevant. I must  admit , however,  that  I 
sometimes  think  about  what  would 
have  happened  if  I had  written  The 
Shrinking  Man  and  I Am  Legend  in  the 
past  few  years. 

TZ:  What  do  you  think  of  the  current 
horror  and  fantasy  scene? 

Matheson:  I really  d(3n’t  read  all  that 
much  of  it,  so  I don’t  know  if  I’m  really 
in  a position  to  say.  Stephen  King, 
however,  does  seem  to  have  the  whole 
field  pretty  much  to  himself.  I like  his 
Writing  very  much.  Fartly  by  design, 
partly  by  his  background,  partly  by  his 
talent,  and  partly  by  his  timing.  King’s 
been  able  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  moun- 


tain. Of  course,  all  of  us  “old-time”  fan- 
tasy writers  helped  build  that  moun- 
tain. 

TZ:  Didn’t  you  once  say  that  when  you 
walk  into  a bookstore,  you  often 
become  amazed  at  some  of  the  gory 
covers  that  you  see  on  horror  books? 
Matheson:  Yes.  In  fact,  the  covers  on 
the  English  editions  of  my  Shock  an- 
thology series  were  pretty  grotesque, 
which  didn’t  please  me.  One  of  them 
had  a demon  biting  a guy’s  head  off. 
Another  one  had  a man  screaming  with 
an  axe  buried  in  his  skull.  I’ve  never 
liked  gore. 

TZ:  It’s  interesting  that  you  like 
King’s  work,  because  gore  is  a very  im- 
portant part  of  his  writing. 

Matheson:  Gore  in  a novel  or  short 
story  is  much  different  than  when  it’s  in 
a visual  form.  I guess  that  when  you’re 
reading,  your  mind  can  tune  out 
whatever  part  of  a story  you  don’t  like. 
There’s  a large  contrast  between  see- 
ing someone  get  his  head  chopped  off 
and  reading  about  it. 

TZ:  Concerning  your  own  writing, 
when  Carol  Serling  first  found  out  that 
I was  going  to  be  interviewing  you,  she 
said,  “God,  I wish  that  Richard  would 
do  another  short  story.” 

Matheson:  It’s  been  a long  time  since 
I’ve  written  one. 

TZ:  How  come? 

Matheson:  I’m  not  sure.  I guess  that 
they  just  lost  interest  for  me.  A writer 
goes  through  phases  concerning  what  , 
he  likes  to  do.  First  I did  short  stories, 
then  novels,  then  movies,  then  televi- 
sion, then  back  to  movies,  then  I 
returned  to  television,  and  now  I’m  into 
plays.  I just  don’t  like  to  stand  still.  If  I 
were  to  write  a new  fantasy  or  horror 


short  story,  it  would  be  like  going 
backwards.  If  I were  to  do  one,  it  would 
probably  be  just  because  someone 
wanted  me  to  do  it/  In  that  kind  of 
situation,  I probably  wouldn’t  even  do 
it  well. 

TZ:  I would  think  that,  at  this  point  in 
time,  you  could  stop  writing  altogether. 
You  must  be  well  off  financially. 
Matheson:  I’m  not.  I don’t  know  of 
any  writers  in  the  fantasy  field  who 
could  stop  writing  and  still  live 
comfortably,  except  for  maybe  Steve 
King,  who  happened  to  hit  the  jackpot. 
It’s  very  expensive  to  live  in  the  world 
today.  Actors  have  that  problem,  too. 
People  see  actors  in  one  or  two  movies 
and  they  think,  “Oh,  boy.  He  must  be 
loaded.”  But  actors ^ like  writers,  have 
to  keep  on  going  because  of  .their  house 
payments,  college  for  their  children, 
and  all  the  other  bills. 

TZ:  Beyond  Jaws  III,  is  there  any 
other  future  film  or  tv  work  that  you 
have  planned? 

Matheson:  No.  Actually,  one  of  the 
reasons  that  I’m  not  more  financially 
soluble  is  that  during  the  past  few 
years.  I’ve  turned  down  several  poten- 
tially lucrative  offers  because  I just 
didn’t  like  them.  I was  all  set  to  write  a 
remalje  of  Fantastic  Voyage,  but  then  I 
lost  interest  in  it.  So  instead  of  taking 
the  studio’s  money  and  not  giving  my 
all  for  a screenplay,  I just  backed  out. 
That  project  was  one  of  many  where 
that  happened. 

TZ:  Then  at  this  point  in  your  life, 
you’ve  decided  that  unless  you’re  really 
hot  on  a property,  you  don’t  want  to  do 
it? 

Matheson:  Right.  Even  though  it  may 
be  to  my  financial  detriment. 

TZ:  It  must  be  nice  to  have  reached 
that  plateau. 

Matheson:  I think  I’ve  always  been 
that  way.  I don’t  recall  ever  having 
taken  a job— although  the  finished  film 
or  tv  show  might  have  suggested  other- 
wise-just for  the  money.  At  least 
ninety-nine  percent  of  the  time.  I’d 
take  an  assignment  only  if  I really 
thought  it  was  interesting. 

TZ:  One  television  project  that  you 
might  be  very  good  at  is  hosting  a 
Tunlight  Zone  type  show. 

Matheson:  I would  love  to,  if  it  could 
be  in  the  half-hour  form.  In  fact,  I have 
loads  of  Twilight  Zone  episode  ideas 
left  over  from  when  I was  working  on 
it.  Hosting  a fantasy  series  would  be  a 
lot  of  fun.  Actually,  that’s  not  a bad 
idea  at  all . . . IS 


21 


ol  pucc 


'TO  SEE  OURSELVES  AS  OTHERS  SEE  US'  CAN  BE  PRETTY  DISCONCERTING  - 
ESPECIALLY  WHEN  IT'S  THROUGH  THE  EYES  OF  YOUR  OWN  PET  CAT! 


“For  something  is  amiss  or  out  of  place 
When  mice  with  wings  can  wear  a human  face.” 

—Theodore  Roethke, 
“The  Bat” 

arcia  was  washing  the  breakfast  dishes  when 
she  first  heard  her  cat  thinking.  “I’m  thirsty, 
why  doesn’t  she  give  me  more  water,  there’s 
dried  food  on  the  sides  of  my  bowl.”  There  was  a 
pause.  “I  wonder  how  she  catches  the  food.  She  can’t 
stalk  anything,  she  always  scares  the  birds  away.  She 
never  catches  any  when  I’m  nearby.  Why  does  she  put 
it  into  those  squares  and  round  things  when  she  just 
has  to  take  it  out  again?  What  is  food,  anyway?  What 
is  water?” 

Very  slowly,  Marcia  put  down  the  cup  she  was 
washing,  turned  off  the  water,  and  faced  the  cat.  Pearl, 
a slim  Siamese,  was  sitting  by  her  plastic  bowls.  She 

22 


swatted  the  newspaper  under  them  with  one  paw,  then 
stretched  out  on  her  side.  “I  want  to  be  combed,  I want 
my  stomach  scratched.  Why  isn’t  he  here?  He  always 
goes  away.  They  should  both  be  here,  they’re  supposed 
to  serve  me.”  Pearl’s  mouth  did  not  move,  but  Marcia 
knew  the  words  were  hers.  For  omi  thing,  there  was  no 
one  else  in  the  house.  For  another,  the  disembodied 
voice  had  a feline  whine  to  it,  as  if  the  words  were 
almost,  but  not  quite,  meows. 

Oh,  God,  Marcia  thought.  I’m  going  crazy.  Still 
eyeing  the  cat,  she  crept  to  the  back  door  and  opened 
it.  She  inhaled  some  fresh  air  and  felt  better.  A robin 
was  pecking  at  the  grass.  “Earth,  yield  your  treasures 
to  me.  I hunger,  my  young  ciy  out  for  food.”  This  voice 
had  a musical  lilt.  Marcia  leaned  against  the  door 
frame. 

“I  create  space.”  The  next  voice  was  deep  and 
sluggish,  ‘"rhe  universe  parts  befoire  me.  It  is  .solid  and 


Illustration  by  Annie  Alleman 


dark  and  damp,  it  covers  all,  but  I create  space.  I ap- 
proach the  infinite.  Who  has  created  it?  A giant  of 
massive  dimensions  must  have  moved  through  the 
world,  leaving  the  infinite.  It  is  before  me  now.  The 
warmth— ah!” 

The  voice  broke  off.  The  robin  had  caught  a 
worm. 

Marcia  slammed  the  door  shut.  Help,  she 
thought,  and  then:  1 wonder  what  Dr.  Leroy  would  say. 
A year  of  transactional  analysis  and  weekly  group- 
therapy  sessions  had  assured  her  that  she  was  only  a 
mildly  depressed  neurotic;  though  she  had  never  been 
able  to  scream  and  jjoimd  her  pOlow  in  front  of  others 
in  her  group  and  could  not  bring  herself  to  call  Dr. 
Leroy  BUI,  as  his  other  clients  did,  the  therapy  had  at 
least  diminished  the;  frequency  of  her  migraines,  and 
the  psychiatrist  had  been  pleased  with  her  progress. 
Now  she  was  sure  that  she  was  becoming  psychotic; 
only  psychotics  heard  voices.  There  was  some  satis- 
faction in  knowing  Dr.  Leroy  had  been  wrong. 

Pearl  had  wandered  away.  Marcia  struggled  to 
stay  calm.  If  I can  hear  her  thoughts,  she  reasoned,  can 
she  hear  mine?  She  shivered.  “Pearl,”  she  called  out  in 
a wavering  voice.  “Here,  kitty.  Nice  Pearl.”  She 
walked  into  the  hall  and  toward  the  stairs. 

The  cat  was  on  the  top  step,  crouching.  Her  taU 
twitched.  Marcia  concentrated,,  trying  to  transmit  a 
message  to  Pearl.  If  you  come  to' the  kitchen  right  now, 
she  thought.  I’ll  give  you  a whole  can  of  Super  Supper. 

The  cat  did  not  move. 

If  you  don’t  come  down  immediately,  Marcia 
went  on,  I won’t  feed  you  at  all. 

Pearl  was  still. 

She  doesn’t  hear  me,  Marcia  thought,  relieved. 
She  was  now  beginning  to  feel  a bit  silly.  She  had  im- 
agined it  all;  she  would  have  to  ask  Dr.  Leroy  what  it 
meant. 

“I  could  leap  from  here,”  Pearl  thought,  “and 
land  on  my  feet.  I could  leap  and  sink  my  claws  in  flesh, 
but  then  Fd  be  punished.”  Marcia  backed  away. 

The  telephone  rang.  Marcia  hurried  to  the  kit- 
chen to  answer  it,  huddling  against  the  wall  as  she 
clung  to  the  receiver.  “Hello.” 

“Marcia?” 

“Hi,  Paula.” 

“Marcia,  I don’t  know  what  to  do,  you’re  going 
to  think  I’m  crazy.” 

“Are  you  at  vrork?” 

“I  called  in  sick.  I think  I’m  having  a nervous 
breakdown.  I heard  the  Baron  this  morning,  I mean  I 
heard  what  he  was  thinking.  I heard  him  very  clearly. 
He  was  thinking,  ‘I’hey’re  stealing  everything  again, 
they’re  stealing  it,’  and  then  he  said,  ‘But  the  other 
man  will  catch  them  and  bring  some  of  it  back,  and  I’ll 
bark  at  him  and  he’ll  be  afraid  even  though  I’m  only  be- 
ing friendly.’  I finally  figured  it  out.  He  thinks  the  gar- 
bage men  are  thieves  and  the  mailman  catches  them 
later.” 


“Does  he  think  in  German?” 

“What?” 

“German  shepherds  should  know  German, 
shouldn’t  they?”  Marcia  laughed  nervously.  “I’m 
sorry,  Paula.  I heard  Pearl,  too.  I also  overheard  a bird 
and  a worm.” 

“I  was  afraid  the  Baron  could  hear  my  thoughts, 
too.  But  he  doesn’t  seem  to.”  Paula  paused.  “Jesus. 
The  Baron  just  came  in.  He  thinks  my  perfume  ruins 
my  smell.  His  idea  of  a good  time  is  sniffing  around  to 
see  which  dogs  pissed  on  his  favorite  telephone  poles. 
What  are  we  going  to  do?” 

“I  don’t  know.”  Marcia  looked  down.  Pearl  was 
rubbing  against  her  legs.  “Why  doesn’t  she  comb  me,” 
the  cat  thought.  “Why  doesn’t  she  pay  attention  to 
me?  She’s  always  talking  to  that  thing.  I’m  much 
prettier.” 

Marcia  said,  “I’ll  call  you  back  later.” 

Doug  was  sitting  at  the  kitchen  table  when 
Marcia  came  up  from  the  laundry  room. 

“You’re  home  early.” 

Doug  looked  up,  frowning  under  his  beard.  “Jim- 
my Barzini  brought  his  hamster  to  Show  and  Tell,  and 
the  damn  thing  started  to  talk.  We  all  heard  it.  That 
was  the  end  of  any  order  in  the  classroom.  The  kids 
started  crowding  around  and  asking  it  questions,  but  it 
just  kept  babbling,  as  if  it  couldn’t  understand  them. 
Its  mouth  wasn’t  moving,  though.  I thought  at  first 
that  Jimmy  was  throwing  his  voice,  but  he  wasn’t. 
Then  I figured  out  thatVe  must  be  hearing  the  ham- 
ster’s thoughts  somehow,  and  then  Mrs.  Price  came  in 
and  told  me  the  white  rats  in  her  class’s  science  project 
were  talking,  too,  and  after  that  Tallman  got  on  the 
P.A.  system  and  said  school  would  close  early.” 

“Then  I’m  not  crazy,”  Marcia  said.  “Or  else  we 
all  are.  I heard  Pearl.  Then  Paula  called  up  and  said 
Baron  von  Ribbentrop  was  doing  it.” 

They  were  both  silent  for  a few  moments.  Then 
Marcia  asked,  “What  did  it  say?  The  hamster,  I 
mean.” 

“It  said,  ‘I  want  to  get  out  of  this  cage.’  ” 

id  cats  owned  by  Russians  speak  Russian? 
Marcia  had  wondered.  Did  dogs  in  France 
transmit  in  French?  Either  animals  were  mul- 
tilingual or  one  heard  their  thoughts  in  one’s  native 
tongue;  she  had  gathered  this  much  from  the  news. 

Press  coverage  and  television  news  programs 
were  now  given  over  almost  entirely  to  this  phenome- 
non. Did  it  mean  that  animals  had  in  fact  become  in- 
telligent, or  were  people  simply  hearing,  for  the  first 
time,  the  thoughts  that  had  always  been  there?  Or  was 
the  world  in  the  midst  of  a mass  psychosis? 

It  was  now  almost  impossible  to  take  a walk 
without  hearing  birds  and  other  people’s  pets  ex- 
pressing themselves  at  length.  Marcia  had  discovered 
that  the  cocker  spaniel  down  the  street  thought  she 
had  a nice  body  odor,  while  Mr.  Sampson’s  poodle  next 


23 


0<^ 


door  longed  to  take  a nip  out  of  her  leg.  Cries  of  “In- 
vader approaching!”  had  kept  her  from  stepping  on  an 
anthill.  She  was  ^aid  to  spend  time  in  her  yard  since 
listening  to  a small  snake:  “I  slither.  The  sun  is  warm. 
I coil.  I strike.  Strike  or  be  struck.  That  is  the  way  of  it. 
My  fangs  are  ready.” 

Marcia  found  herself  hiding  from  this  cacophony 
by  staying  indoors,  listening  instead  to  the  babble  on 
the  radio  and  television  as  animal  behaviorists,  zoo  of- 
ficials, dog  breeders,  farmers,  psychiatrists,  and  a few 
cranks  offered  their  views.  A Presidential  commission 
was  to  study  the  matter;  an  advisor  to  the  President 
had  spoken  of  training  migratory  birds  as  observers  to 
assure  arms  control.  Marcia  had  heard  many  theories. 
People  were  picking  up  the  thoughts  of  animals  and 
somehow  translating  them  into  terms  they  could 
understand.  They  were  picking  up  their  own  thoughts 
and  projecting  them  onto  the  nearest  creatures.  The 
animals’  thoughts  were  a manifestation  of  hu- 
mankind’s guilt  over  having  treated  other  living,  sen- 
tient beings  as  slaves  and  objects.  They  were  all  racists 
— or  “speciesists,”  as  one  philosopher  had  put  it  on 
“Good  Morning  America”;  the  word  had  gained  wide 
currency. 

Marcia  had  begun  to  follow  Pearl  around  the 
house,  hoping  for  some  insight  into  the  cat’s  character; 
it  had  occurred  to  her  that  understanding  a cat’s  point 
of  view  might  yield  some  wisdom.  Pearl,  however,  had 
disappointed  her.  The  cat’s  mind  was  almost  purely  as- 
sociative; she  thought  of  food,  of  being  scratched 
behind  the  ears,  of  sex,  of  sharpening  her  claws  on  the 
furniture.  “I  want  to  stalk  those  birds  in  the  yard,”  she 
would  think.  “I  like  to  feel  the  grass  on  my  paws  but  it 
tickles  my  nose,  when  I scratched  that  dog  next  door 
on  the  nose,  he  yipped,  I hate  him,  why  did  my  people 
scream  at  me  when  I caught  a mouse  and  put  it  on 
their  pillow  for  them.  I’m  thirsty,  why  don’t  they  ever 
give  me  any  tuna  fish  instead  of  keeping  it  all  to  them- 
selves?” Pearl  reminded  Marcia,  more  than  anything, 
of  her  mother-in-law,  whose  conversations  were  a 
weakly  linked  chain. 

Yet  she  supposed  she  still  loved  the  cat,  in  spite 
of  it.  In  the  evening.  Pearl  would  hop  on  her  lap  as  she 
watched  television  with  Doug,  and  Marcia  would 
stroke  her  fur,  and  Pearl  would  say,  “That  feels  good,” 
and  begin  to  purr.  At  night,  before  going  to  bed,  Mar- 
cia had  always  closed  the  bedroom  door,  feeling  that 
sex  should  be  private,  even  from  cats.  Now  she  was 
glad  she  had  done  so.  She  was  not  sure  she  wanted  to 
know  what  Pearl  would  have  had  to  say  about  that 
subject. 

The  President  had  gone  on  television  to  urge 
the  nation  to  return  to  its  daily  tasks,  and 
Doug’s  school  had  reopened.  Marcia,  alone 
again  for  the  day,  vacuumed  the  living  room  while 
thinking  guiltily  tiiat  she  had  to  start  looking  for 


another  job.  The  months  at  hom(;  had  made  her  lazy; 
she  had  too  easily  settled  into  a homemaker’s  routine 
and  wondered  if  this  meant  she  was  unintelligent.  Per- 
sisting in  her  dull-wittedness,  she  decided  to  do  some 
grocery  shopping  instead  of  making  a trip  to  the  em- 
ployment agency. 

Doug  had  taken  the  bus  to  Avork,  leaving  her  the 
car.  She  felt  foolish  as  she  drove  down  the  street.  An- 
ton’s Market  was  only  a block  awsiy  and  she  could  have 
taken  her  shopping  cart,  but  she  could  not  face  the 
neighborhood’s  animals.  It  was  all  too  evident  that  Mr. 
Sampson’s  poodle  and  a mixed-breed  down  the  road 
bore  her  ill  will  because  she  was  Pearl’s  owner.  She 
had  heard  a report  from  India  on  the  morning  news. 
Few  people  there  were  disturbed  by  recent  events, 
since  audible  animal  contemplation  h^  only  confirmed 
what  many  had  already  believed;  that  animals  had 
souls.  Several  people  there  had  in  fact  identified  cer- 
tain creatures  as  dead  relatives  or  ancestors. 

As  she  parked  behind  Anton’s  Market  and  got 
out  of  the  car,  she  noticed  a colli(j  pawing  at  Mr.  An- 
ton’s garbage  cans.  “Bones,”  the  dog  was  thinking.  “I 
know  there  are  bones  in  there.  I v^ant  to  gnaw  on  one. 
What  a wonderful  day!  I smell  a bitch  close  by.”  The 
collie  barked.  “Why  do  they  make  it  so  hard  for  me  to 
get  the  bones?”  The  dog’s  mood  was  growing  darker. 
It  turned  toward  Marcia’s  car.  “I  hate  them,  I hate 
those  shiny  rolling  carapaces,  I s:iw  it,  one  rolled  and 
growled  as  it  went  down  the  street  and  it  didn’t  even 
see  her,  she  barked  and  whined  and  then  she  died,  and 
the  thing’s  side  opened  and  a man  got  out,  and  the 
thing  just  sat  there  on  its  wheels  and  purred.  I hate 
them.”  The  dog  barked  again. 

When  Marcia  entered  the  store,  she  saw  Mr.  An- 
ton behind  the  cash  register.  “Wliere’s  Jeannie?”  she 
asked. 

Mr.  Anton  usually  seemed  cheerful,  as  if  three 
decades  of  waiting  on  his  customtirs  had  set  his  round 
face  in  a perpetual  smile.  But  today  his  brown  eyes 
stared  at  her  morosely.  “I  had  to  let  her  go,  Mrs. 
Bochner,”  he  replied.  “I  had  to  let  the  other  butchers 
go,  too.  'Thirty  years,  and  I don’t  Icnow  how  long  I can 
keep  going.  My  supplier  won’t  be  able  to  get  me  any 
more  meat.  There’s  a run  on  it  now  in  the  big  cities, 
but  after  that—”  He  shrugged.  “May  I help  you?”  he 
went  on,  and  smiled,  as  if  old  habits  were  reasserting 
themselves. 

Marcia,  peering  down  the  aisle  of  canned  goods, 
noticed  that  the  meat  counter  was  almost  empty. 
Another  customer,  a big-shoulder(;d,  gray-haired  man, 
wandered  over  with  a six-pack  of  beer.  “I  don’t  know 
yhat  things  are  coming  to,”  the  man  said  as  he  fum- 
bled for  his  wallet.  “I  was  out  in  the  country  with  my 
buddy  last  weekend.  You  can’t  hardly  sleep  with  aU  the 
noise.  I heard  one  of  them  coyotes  out  there.  You  know 
what  it  said?  It  said,  T must  be\irare  the  two-legged 
stalker.’  And  you  know  who  it  meant.  Then  it.howl^.” 


24 


Medical  researchers 
were  abandoning 
animal  studies 
and  turning  to 
computer  models. 
Racing  tracks  were 
closing  because  too 
many  horseplayers 
were  getting  inside 
information  from 
the  horses. 


“You  should  hsive  seen  ‘60  Minutes,’  ’’  Mr.  Anton 
said.  “They  did  a story  about  the  tuna  fishermen,  and 
how  they’re  going  out  of  business.  They  showed  one  of 
the  last  runs.  They  shouldn’t  have  stuff  like  that  on 
when  kids  are  watching.  My  grandson  was  crying  all 
night.”  He  draped  an  arm  over  the  register.  “A  guy 
has  a farm,”  he  said.  “How  does  he  know  it’s  actually  a 
concentration  camp?  All  the  cows  are  bitching,  that’s 
what  they  say.  You  can’t  go  into  a bam  now  without 
hearing  their  complaints.”  He  sighed.  “At  least  we  can 
still  get  milk— the  cows  can’t  wander  around  with 
swollen  udders.  But  what  the  hell  happens  later?  They 
want  bigger  stalls,  they  want  better  feed,  they  want 
more  pasture.  What  if  they  want  to  keep  all  the  milk 
for  their  calves?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  Marcia  said,  at  a loss. 

“The  government  should  do  something,”  the 
gray-haired  man  muttered. 

“The  chickens.  They’re  all  crazy  from  being 
crowded.  It’s  like  a nuthouse,  a chicken  farm.  The 
pigs— they’re  the  worst,  because  they’re  the  smartest. 
You  know  what  I fetl  like?  I feel  like  a murderer— I’ve 
got  blood  on  my  hands.  I feel  like  a cannibal.” 

Marcia  had  left  the  house  with  thoughts  of  ham- 
burgers and  slices  of  baked  Virginia  ham.  Now  she  had 
lost  her  appetite.  “'V^Tiat  are  you  going  to  do?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  Mr.  Anton  replied.  “I’m  trying 
to  get  into  legumesi,  vegetables,  fresh  produce,  but 
that  puts  me  in  competition  with  John  Ramey’s  fruit 
and  vegetable  market.  I’m  going  to  have  to  get  a 
vegetarian  advisor,  so  I’ll  know  what  to  stock.  There’s 
this  vegetarian  college  kid  down  the  street  from  me. 
She’s  thinking  of  setting  up  a consulting  firm.” 

“Well,”  Marcia  said,  looking  down  at  the  floor. 

“I  can  give  you  some  potato  salad,  my  wife  made 
it  up  fresh.  At  least  potatoes  don’t  talk.  Not  yet.” 

Doug  nibbled  at  his  dinner  of  bean  curd  and 
vegetables.  “Have  you  noticed?  People  are  getting 
thinner.” 

“Not  everybody.  Some  people  are  eating  more 
starch.” 

“I  guess  so,”  Doug  said.  “Still,  it’s  probably  bet- 
ter for  us  in  the  long  run.  We’ll  live  longer.  I know  I 
feel  better.” 


“I  suppose.  I don’t  know  what  we’re  going  to  do 
when  Pearl’s  cat  food  runs  out.”  Marcia  lowered  her 
voice  when  she  spoke  of  Pearl. 

After  supper,  they  watched  the  evening  news. 
Normality,  of  a sort,  had  returned  to  the  network 
broadcast;  the  first  part  of  the  program  consisted  of 
the  usual  assortment  of  international  crises.  Congres- 
sional hearings,  and  press  conferences.  Halfway 
through  the  broadcast,  it  was  announced  that  the 
President’s  Labrador  retriever  had  died;  the 
Washington  Post  was  claiming  that  the  Secret  Service 
had  disposed  of  the  dog  as  a security  risk. 

“My  God,”  Marcia  said. 

There  was  more  animal  news  toward  the  end  of 
the  program.  Family  therapists  in  California  were  ask- 
ing their  clients  to  bring  their  pets  to  sessions.  Animal 
shelters  all  over  the  country  were  crowded  with  dogs 
and  cats  that  workers  refused  to  put  to  sleep.  Medical 
researchers  were  abandoning  animal  studies  and  turn- 
ing to  computer  models.  Racing  tracks  were  closing 
because  too  many  horseplayers  were  getting  inside  in- 
formation from  the  horses.  There  were  rumors  in 
Moscow  that  the  Kremlin  had  been  secretly  and  exten- 
sively fumigated,  and  that  there  were  thousands  of 
dead  mice  in  the  city’s  sewers.  There  was  a story  about 
a man  named  MacDonald,  whose  column,  “Mac- 
Donald’s Farm,”  was  made  up  of  sayings  and 
aphorisms  he  picked  up  from  his  barnyard  animals.  His 
column  had  been  syndicjited  and  was  being  published 
in  several  major  newspapers,  putting  him  in  direct 
competition  with  Farmer  Bob,  a “Today”  show  com- 
mentator who  also  had  a column.  Marcia  suspected 
editorial  tampering  on  the  part  of  both  men,  since  Mac- 
Donald’s animals  sounded  like  Will  Rogers,  while 
Farmer  Bob’s  reminded  her  of  Oscar  Wilde. 

Pearl  entered  the  room  as  the  news  was  ending 
and  began  to  claw  at  the  rug.  “I  saw  an  interesting  cat 
on  Phil  Donahue  this  morning,”  Marcia  said.  “A  Per- 
sian. Kind  of  a philosopher.  His  owner  said  that  he  has 
a theory  of  life  after  death  and  thinks  cats  live  on  in  a 
parallel  world.  The  cat  thinks  that  all  those  strange 
sounds  you  sometimes  hear  in  the  night  are  actually 
the  spirits  of  cats.  What’s  interesting  is  that  he  doesn’t 
think  birds  or  mice  have  souls.” 

“Why  don’t  you  look  for  a job  instead  of  watch- 
ing the  tube  all  day?” 

“I  don’t  watch  it  all  day.  I have  to  spend  a lot  of 
time  on  meals,  you  know.  Vegetarian  cooking  is  very 
time-consuming  when  you’re  not  used  to  it.” 

“That’s  no  excuse.  You  know  I’ll  do  my  share 
when  you’re  working.” 

“I’m  afrai(i>to  leave  Pearl  alone  all  day.” 

“That  never  bothered  you  before.” 

“I  never  heard  what  she  was  thinking  before.” 

Pearl  was  stretching,  front  legs  straight  out, 
back  arched.  “I  want  to  sleep  on  the  bed  tonight,”  the 
cat  was  thinking.  “Why  can’t  I sleep  on  it  at  night,  I 


2S 


0<^ 


sleep  there  during  the  day.  They  keep  it  all  to 
themselves.  They  let  that  woman  with  the  red  fur  on 
her  head  sleep  there  at  night,  but  not  me.” 

Doug  sucked  in  his  breath.  Marcia  sat  up.  “He 
pushed  her  on  it,”  the  cat  went  on,  “and  they  shed 
their  outer  skins,  and  he  rolled  around  and  rubbed  her, 
but  when  I jumped  up  on  the  bed,  he  shooed  me  away.” 

Marcia  said,  “You  bastard.”  Doug  was  pulling  at 
his  beard.  “When  did  this  happen?”  He  did  not  answer. 
“It  must  have  been  when  I was  visiting  my  sister, 
wasn’t  it?  You  son  of  a bitch.”  She  got  to  her  feet,  feel- 
ing as  though  someone  had  punched  her  in  the 
stomach.  ‘“Red  fur  on  her  head.  It  must  have  been 
Emma.  I always  thought  she  was  after  you.  Jesus 
Christ,  you  couldn’t  even  go  to  a motel.” 

“I  went  out  with  some  friends  for  a few  beerg,” 
Doug  said  in  a low  voice.  “She  drove  me  home.  I didn’t 
expect  anything  to  happen.  It  didn’t  mean  anything.  I 
would  have  told  you  if  I thought  it  was  important,  but 
it  wasn’t,  so  why  bother  you  with  it?  I don’t  even  like 
Emma  that  much.”  He  was  ^ent  for  a moment.  “You 
haven’t  exactly  been  showing  a lot  of  interest  in  sex, 
you  know.  And  ever  since  you  stopped  working,  you 
don’t  seem  to  care  about  anything.  At  least  Emma 
talks  about  something  besides  housework  and  gossip 
and  Phil  Donahue.” 

“You  didn’t  even  close  the  door,”  Marcia  said, 
making  fists  of  her  hands.  “You  didn’t  even  think  of 
Pearl.” 

“For  God’s  sake,  Marcia,  do  you  think  normal 
people  care  if  a cat  sees  them?” 

“They  do  now.” 

“I’m  thirsty,”  Pearl  said.  “I  want  some  food. 
Why  doesn’t  anybody  clean  my  box?  It  stinks  all  the 
time.  I wish  I could  piss  where  I like.” 

Doug  said,  “I’m  going  to  kill  that  cat.”  He 
started  to  lunge  .across  the  room. 

“No,  you’re  not.”  Marcia  stepped  in  front  of 
him,  blocking  his  way.  Pearl  scurried  off. 

“Let  me  by.” 

“No.” 

She  struggled  with  him.  He  knocked  her  aside 
and  she  screamed,  swung  at  him,  and  began  to  cry. 
They  both  sat  down  on  the  floor.  Marcia  cursed  at  him 
between  sobs  while  he  kept  saying  he  was  sorry.  The 
television  set  blared  at  them  until  Doug  turned  it  off 
and  got  out  some  wine.  They  drank  for  a while  and 
Marcia  thought  of  throwing  him  out,  then  remembered 
that  she  didn’t  have  a job  and  would  be  alone  with 
Pearl. 

Doug  went  to  bed  early,  exhausted  by  his  apol- 
ogizing. Marcia  glared  at  the  sofa  resentfully;  it  was 
Doug  who  should  sleep  there,  not  she. 

Before  she  went  to  sleep,  she  called  Pearl.  The 
cat  crept  up  from  the  cellar  while  Marcia  took  out  some 
cat  food.  “Your  favorite,”  she  whispered  to  the  cat. 
“Chicken  livers.  Your  reward.  Good  kitty.” 


arcia  had  heard  a sharp  crack  early  that 
morning.  The  poodle  next  door  was  dead,  ly- 
ing in  the  road.  When  Mr.  Sampson  found 
out,  he  strode  across  the  street  and  started  shouting  at 
Mr.  Hornig’s  door. 

“Come  out,  you  murderer,”  he  hollered.  “You 
come  out  here  and  tell  me  why  you  shot  my  dog.  You 
bastard,  get  out  here!” 

Marcia  stood  in  her  front  yard,  watching;  Doug 
was  staring  out  the  bay  windov/  at  the  scene.  The 
Novaks’  cocker  spaniel  sat  on  the  edge  of  Marcia’s 
lawn.  “I  smell  death,”  the  spaniel  thought.  “I  smell 
rage.  What  is  the  matter?  We  are  the  friends  of  man, 
but  must  we  die  to  prove  our  loyalty?  We  are  not 
friends,  we  are  slaves.  We  die  licking  our  masters’ 
hands.” 

Mr.  Homig  opened  his  door;  he  was  holding  a ri- 
fle. “Get  the  hell  off  my  lawn,  Sampson.” 

“You  shot  my  dog.”  Mr.  Sampson  was  still  wear- 
ing his  pajamas;  his  bald  pate  glttamed  in  the  sun.  “I 
want  to  know  why.  I want  an  answer  right  now  before 
I call  the  cops.” 

Mr.  Hornig  walked  out  on  his  porch  and  down 
the  steps;  Mrs.  Hornig  came  to  the  door,  gasped,  and 
went  after  her  husband,  wresting  the  weapon  from 
him.  He  pulled  away  from  her  and  moved  toward  Mr. 
Sampson. 

“Why?”  Mr.  Sampson  cried.  “Why  did  you  do 
it?” 

“I’ll  tell  you  why.  I can  live  with  your  damn  dog 
yapping  all  the  time,  even  though  I hate  yappy  dogs.  I 
don’t  even  care  about  him  leaving  turds  all  over  my 
yard  and  running  around  loose.  But  I won’t  put  up 
with  his  spying  and  his  goddamn  insults.  That  dog  of 
yours  has  a dirty  mind.” 

“Had,”  Mr.  Sampson  shouted.  “He’s  dead  now. 
You  killed  him  and  left  him  in  the  street.” 

“He  insulted  my  wife.  He  was  laughing  at  her 
tits.  He  was  right  outside  our  bedroom  window,  and  he 
was  making  fun  of  her  tits.”  Mrs.  Hornig  retreated 
with  the  rifle.  “He  says  we  stink.  That’s  what  he  said. 
He  said  we  smell  like  something  that’s  been  lying  out- 
side too  long.  I take  a shower  every  day,  and  he  says  I 
stink.  And  he  said  some  other  things  I won’t  repeat.” 

Mr.  Sampson  leaned  forward.  “You  fool.  He 
didn’t  understand.  How  the  hell  could  he  help  what  he 
thought?  You  didn’t  have  to  listen.” 

“I’ll  bet  I know  where  h(‘  got  his  ideas.  He 
wouldn’t  have  thought  them  up  all  by  himself.  I shot 
him  and  I’m  glad.  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Sampson?” 

Mr.  Sampson  answered  with  his  fist.  Soon  the 
two  pudgy  men  were  rolling  in  the  grass,  trading  pun- 
ches. A few  neighborhood  children  gathered  to  watch 
the  display.  A police  car  appeared;  Marcia  looked  on  as 
the  officers  pidled  the  two  men  av/ay  from  each  other. 

“My  God,”  Marcia  said  as  she  went  inade.  “The 


26 


police  came,”  she  said  to  Doug,  who  was  now  stretched 
out  on  the  sofa  with:  the  Sunday  New  York  Times.  She 
heard  Pearl  in  the  next  room,  scratching  at  the  dining 
room  table.  “Good  and  sharp,”  Pearl  was  saying.  “I 
have  them  good  and  sharp.  My  claws  are  so  pretty.  Pm 
shedding.  Why  doesn’t  somebody  comb  me?” 

“Pve  let  you  down,”  Doug  said  suddenly.  Marcia 
tensed.  “I  don’t  mean  just  with  Emma,  I mean  gener- 
ally.” They  had  not  spoken  of  that  incident  since  the 
night  of  Pearl’s  revelation. 

“No,  you  haven’t,”  Marcia  said. 

“I  have.  Mayhie  we  should  have  had  a kid.  I don’t 
know.” 


“You  know  I don’t  want  kids  now.  Anyway,  we 
can’t  afford  it  yet.” 

“That  isn’t  the  only  reason,”  Doug  said,  staring 
at  the  dining  room  entrance,  where  Pearl  now  sat,  lick- 
ing a paw,  silent  for  once.  “You  know  how  possessive 
Siamese  cats  are.  If  we  had  a kid.  Pearl  would  hate  it. 
The  kid  would  have  to  listen  to  mean  remarks  all  day. 
He’d  probably  be  neurotic.” 

Pearl  gazed  at  them  calmly.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 

glow. 

“Maybe  we  should  get  rid  of  her,”  Doug  went 


on. 


“Oh,  no.  You’re  just  mad  at  her  still.  Anyway, 
she  loves  you.” 

“No,  she  doesn’t.  She  doesn’t  love  anyone.” 
“Pet  me,”  Pearl  said.  “Somebody  better  scratch 


me  behind  the  ears,  and  do  it  nicely.” 


We  have  chickens  today,”  Mr.  Anton  said  as 
Marcia  entered  the  store.  “I’ll  be  getting 
beef  in  next  week.”  He  leaned  against  the 
counter,  glancing  at  the  clock  on  the  wall;  it  was 
almost  closing  time.  “Jeannie’s  coming  back  on  Tues- 
day. Things’ll  be  normal  again.” 

“I  suppose,”  Marcia  said.  “You’ll  probably  be 
seeing  me  on  Saturdays  from  now  on.  I finally  found  a 
job.  Nothing  special,  just  office  work.”  She  paused. 
“Doesn’t  it  make  you  feel  funny?”  She  waved  a hand 
at  the  chickens. 

“It  did  at  first.  But  you  have  to  look  at  it  this 
way.  First  of  all,  chickens  are  stupid.  I guess  nobody 


really  knew  how  stupid  until  they  could  hear  them 
thinking.  And  cows— well,  it’s  like  my  supplier  said.  No 
one’s  going  to  hurt  some  nice  animal,  but  a lot  of  them 
don’t  have  nice  things  to  say  about  people,  and  some  of 
them  sound  like  real  troublemakers.  You  know  who’s 
going  to  get  the  axe,  so  to  speak.  It’s  a good  thing  they 
don’t  know  we  can  hear  them.”  Mr.  Anton  lowered  his 
voice.  “And  the  pigs.  Think  they’re  better  than  we  are, 
that’s  what  they  say.  Sitting  around  in  a pen  all  day, 
and  thinking  they’re  better.  They’ll  be  sorry.” 

As  Marcia  walked  home  with  her  chicken  and 
eggs,  the  street  seemed  quieter  that  evening.  The  birds 
still  babbled:  “My  eggs  are  warm.”  “The  wind  lifts  me, 
and  carries  me  to  my  love.”  “The  wires  hum  under  my 
feet.”  “I  am  strong,  my  nest  is  sound,  I want  a mate.” 
A squirrel  darted  up  a tree.  “Tuck  them  away,  tuck 
them  away.  I have  many  acorns  in  my  secret  place. 
Save,  save,  save.  I am  prepared.” 

She  did  not  hear  the  neighborhood  pets.  Some 
were  inside;  others  were  all  too  evident.  She  passed 
the  bodies  of  two  gray  cats,  then  detoured  around  a 
dead  mutt.  Her  eyes  stung.  We’ve  always  killed  ani- 
mals, she  thought.  Why  should  this  be  different? 

Louise  Novak  was  standing  by  her  dead  cocker 
spaniel,  crying.  “Louise?”  Marcia  said  as  she  ap- 
proached the  child.  Louise  looked  up,  sniffing.  Marcia 
gazed  at  the  spaniel,  remembering  that  the  dog  had 
liked  her. 

“Dad  killed  her,’*'  the  girl  said.  “Mrs.  Jones 
overheard  her  and  told  everybody  Dad  hits  Mom.  Dad 
said  she  liked  Mom  and  me  best,  he  heard  her  think  it. 
He  said  she  hated  him  and  chewed  his  slippers  on  pur- 
pose and  she  wanted  to  tear  out  his  throat  because  he’s 
mean.  I wish  she  had.  I hate  him.  I hope  he  dies.” 

When  Marcia  reached  her  own  house,  she  saw 
the  car  in  the  driveway;  Doug  was  home.  She  heard 
him  moving  around  upstairs  as  she  unpacked  her 
groceries  and  put  them  away.  Pearl  came  into  the  kit- 
chen and  meowed,  then  scampered  to  the  door,  still 
meowing.  “I  want  to  go  outside.  Why  doesn’t  she  let 
me  out?  I want  to  stalk  birds,  I want  to  play.” 

Pearl  was  so  unaware,  so  insistent,  so  perfect  in 
her  otherness.  You’d  better  be  careful,  Marcia  thought 
violently.  You’d  better  keep  your  mind  quiet  when  our 
friends  are  here  if  you  know  what’s  good  for  you,  or 
you’ll  stay  in  the  cellar.  And  you’d  better  watch  what 
you  think  about  me. 

Appalled,  she  suddenly  realized  that  under  the 
right  circumstances,  she  could  dash  the  cat’s  brains  out 
against  the  wall. 

“I  want  to  go  outside.” 

“Pearl,”  Marcia  said,  leaning  over  the  cat. 
“Pearl,  listen  to  me.  Try  to  understand.  I know  you 
can’t,  but  try  anyway.  You  can’t  go  outside,  it’s  dan-, 
gerous.  You  have  to  stay  here.  You  have  to  stay  inside 
for  your  own  good.  I know  what’s  best.  You  have  to 
stay  inside  from  now  on.”  iS 


27 


Illustration  by  Randy  Jones 


BAXTER  WAS  BIG,  HARD-BOILED,  AND  HARD  TO  SCARE. 
BUT  HE  FINALLY  MET  HIS  MATCH  IN  THE  . . . 

Shootout 
in  the  Toy  Shop 

by  Robopt  Sheokley 


The  meeting  took  place  in  the  taproom  of  the 
Beaux  Arts  Club  of  Camden,  New  Jersey.  It 
was  the  sort  of  uptight  saloon  that  Baxter 
usually  avoided— Tiffany  lamp  shades,  tables  of  dark 
polished  wood,  discreet  lighting.  His  potential  cus- 
tomer, Mr.  Arnold  Conabee,  was  in  a booth  waiting 
for  him.  Conabee  was  a soft-faced,  fragile-looking 
man,  and  Baxter  took  care  to  shake  his  hand  gently. 
After  squeezing  his  bulk  into  the  red  leatherette 
booth,  Baxter  asked  for  a vodka  martini,  very  dry, 
because  that  was  the  sort  of  thing  people  ordered  in  a 
joint  like  this.  Conabee  crossed  him  up  by  asking  for 
a margarita  straight  up. 

It  was  Baxter’s  first  job  in  nearly  a month,  and 
he  was  determined  not  to  blow  it.  His  breath  was 
kissing  sweet,  and  he  had  powdered  his  heavy  jowls 
with  talcum  powder.  His  glen  plaid  suit  was  freshly 
pressed  and  concealed  his  gut  pretty  well,  and  his 
black  police  shoes  gleamed.  Looking  good,  baby.  But 
he  had  forgotten  to  clean  his  fingernails,  and  now  he 
saw  that  they  were  black-rimmed.  He  wanted  to 
keep  his  hands  in  his  lap,  but  then  he  couldn’t  smoke. 

Conabee  wasn’t  interested  in  his  hands,  how- 
ever. Conabee  had  a problem,  and  that  was  why  he 
had  arranged  this  meeting  with  Baxter,  a private  de- 
tective who  listed  himself  in  the  Yellow  Pages  as  the 
Acme  Investigative  Service. 

“Somebody  is  stealing  from  me,”  Conabee  was 
saying,  “but  I don’t  know  who.” 

“Just  fill  me  in  on  the  details,”  Baxter  said.  His 
voice  was  the  best  part  of  him,  a deep,  manly  drawl, 
exactly  the  right  voice  for  a private  investigator. 

“My  shop  is  over  at  the  South  Camden  Mall,” 
Conabee  said.  “ ‘Conabee’s  Toys  for  Children  of  All 
Ages.’  Tm  beginning  to  acquire  an  international 
reputation.” 

“Right,”  Baxter  said,  although  he  had  never 
heard  of  Conabee’s  scam. 

“The  trouble  started  two  weeks  ago,”  Conabee 
said.  “I  had  just  completed  an  experimental  doll,  the 
most  advanced  of  its  kind  in  the  world.  The  prototype 
utilized  a new  optical  switching  circuit  and  a syn- 
thetic protein  memory  with  a thousand  times  the 
order  of  density  previously  achieved.  It  was  stolen  on 
the  first  night  of  its  display.  Various  pieces  of  equip- 
ment and  a quantity  of  precious  metals  were  also 
taken.  Since  then,  there  have  been  thefts  almost 
every  night.” 


“No  chance  of  a break-in?” 

“The  locks  are  never  tampered  with.  And  the 
thief  always  seems  to  know  when  we  have  anything 
worth  stealing.” 

Baxter  grunted  and  Conabee  said,  “It  seems  to 
be  an  inside  job.  But  I can’t  believe  it.  I have  only 
four  employees.  The  most  recent  has  been  with  me 
six  years.  I trust  them  all  implicitly.” 

“Then  you  gotta  be  hooking  the  stuff  yourself,” 
Baxter  said,  winking,  “because  somebody’s  sure  cart- 
ing it  off.” 

Conabee  stiffened  and  looked  at  Baxter  oddly, 
then  laughed.  “I  almost  wish  it  were  me,”  he  said. 
“My  employees  are  all  my  friends.” 

“Hell,”  Baxter  said,  “anybody’ll  rip  off  the  boss 
if  he  thinks  he  can  get  away  with  it.” 

Conabee  looked  at  him  oddly  again,  and  Bax- 
ter realized  that  he  wasn’t  talking  genteel  enough  and 
that  a sure  seventy-five  dollars  was  about  to  vanish. 
He  forced  himself  to  b^  cool  and  to  say,  in  his  deep, 
competent,  no-nonsense  voice,  “I  could  hide  myself  in 
your  shop  tonight,  Mr.  Conabee.  You  could  be  rid  of 
this  annoyance  once  and  for  all.” 

“Yes,”  Conabee  said,  “it  has  been  annoying. 
It’s  not  so  much  the  loss  of  income  as  . . .”  He  let  the 
thought  trail  away.''“Today  we  got  in  a shipment  of 
gold  filigree  from  Germany  worth  eight  hundred  dol- 
lars. I’ve  brought  an  extra  key.” 

Baxter  took  a bus  downtown  to  Courthouse 
Square.  He  had  about  three  hours  before  he 
was  to  stake  himself  out  in  Conabee’s  shop. 
He’d  been  tempted  to  ask  for  an  advance,  but  had 
decided  against  it.  It  didn’t  pay  to  look  hungry,  and 
this  job  could  be  a fresh  start  for  him. 

Down  the  street  he  saw  Stretch  Jones  holding 
up  a lamp  post  on  Fountain  and  Clinton.  Stretch  was 
a tall,  skinny,  very  black  man  wearing  a sharply  cut 
white  linen  suit,  white  moccasins,  and  a tan  Stetson. 
Stretch  said,  “Hey,  baby.” 

“Hi,”  Baxter  said  sourly. 

“You  got  that  bread  for  my  man?” 

“I  told  Dinny  I’d  have  it  Monday.” 

“He  told  me  I should  remind  you,  ’cause  he 
don’t  want  you  should  forget.” 

“I’ll  have  it  Monday,”  Baxter  said,  and  walked 
on.  It  was  a lousy  hundred  dollars  which  he  owed  to 
Dinny  Welles,  Stretch’s  boss.  Baxter  resented  being 


29 


braced  for  it,  especially  by  an  insolent  black  bastard 
in  an  ice-cream  suit.  But  there  wasn’t  anything  he 
could  do  about  it. 


At  the  Clinton  Cut-Rate  Liquor  Store  he  or- 
dered a bottle  of  Haig  and  Haig  Pinch  to  cel- 
ebrate his  new  job,  and  Terry  Turner,  the 
clerk,  had  the  nerve  to  say,  “Uh,  Charlie,  I can’t  do 
this  no  more.” 

“What  in  hell  are  you  talking  about?”  Baxter 
demanded. 

“It  ain’t  me,”  Turner  said.  “You  know  I just 
work  here.  It’s  Mrs.  Chednik.  She  said  not  to  give 
you  any  more  credit.” 

“Take  it  out  of  this,”  Baxter  said,  coming 
across  with  his  last  twenty. 

Turner  rang  up  the  sale,  then  said,  “But  your 

tab-” 

“I’ll  settle  it  direct  with  Mrs.  Chednik,  and 
you  can  tell  her  I said  so.” 

“Well,  all  right,  Charlie,”  Turner  said,  giving 
him  the  change.  “But  you’re  going  to  get  into  a lot  of 
trouble.” 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Baxter  knew  that 
Turner  was  part  owner  of  the  Clinton  and  that  he 
and  Mrs.  Chednik  had  decided  to  cut  him  off  until  he 
paid  up.  And  Turner  knew  that  he  knew  this.  The 
bastard! 

The  next  stop  was  the  furnished  efficiency  he 
called  home  over  on  River  Road  Extension.  Baxter 
walked  up  the  stairs  to  the  twilight  gloom  of  his  liv- 
ing room.  A small  black  and  white  television  glowed 
faintly  in  a corner.  Betsy  was  in  the  bedroom,  pack- 
ing. Her  eye  had  swollen  badly. 

“And  just  where  do  you  think  you’re  going?” 
Baxter  demanded. 

“I’m  going  to  stay  with  my  brother.” 

“Forget  it,”  Baxter  said,  “it  was  only  an  argu- 
ment.” She  went  on  packing. 

“You’re  staying  right  here,”  Baxter  told  her. 


He  pushed  her  out  of  the  way  and  looked  through  her 
suitcase.  He  came  up  with  his  onyx  cuff  links,  his  tie 
clasp  with  the  gold  nugget,  his  Series  E savings 
bonds,  and  damned  if  she  hadn’t  also  tucked  away  his 
Smith  & Wesson  .38. 

“Now  you’re  really  going  to  get  it,”  he  told  her. 

She  looked  at  him  levelly.  “Charlie,  I warn 
you,  never  touch  me  again  if  you  know  what’s  good 
for  you.” 

Baxter  took  a step  toward  her,  bulky  and  im- 
posing in  his  newly  pressed  suit.  But  suddenly  he 
remembered  that  her  brother  Amos  worked  in  the 
D.A.’s  office.  Would  Betsy  blow  the  whistle  on  him? 
He  really  couldn’t  risk  finding  out,  even  though  she 
was  bugging  him  beyond  human  endurance. 

Just  then  the  doorbell  rang  sharply,  three 
times  — McGorty’s  ring— and  Baxter  had  ten  dollars 
with  McGorty  on  today’s  number.  He  opened  the 
door,  but  it  wasn’t  McGorty,  it  was  a tiny  Chinese 
woman  pitching  some  religious  pamphlet.  She 
wouldn’t  shut  up  and  go  away,  not  even  when  he  told 
her  nice;  she  just  kept  at  him,  and  Baxter  was  sud- 
denly filled  with  the  desire  to  kick  her  downstairs, 
along  with  her  knapsack  of  tracts. 

And  then  Betsy  slipped  past  him.  She  had 
managed  to  get  the  suitcase  closed,  and  it  all  hap- 
pened so  fast  that  Baxter  couldn’t  do  a thing.  He  fi- 
nally got  rid  of  the  Chinese  lady  and  poured  himself  a 
tumblerful  of  whisky.  Then  he  remembered  the  bonds 
and  looked  around,  but  that  damned  Betsy  had 
whipped  everything  away,  including  his  gold  nugget 
tie  clasp.  His  Smith  & Wesson  was  still  on  the  bed 
under  a fold  of  blanket,  so  he  ])ut  it  into  his  suit 
pocket  and  poured  another  drink. 

He  ate  the  knockwurst  special  at  the  Sham- 
rock, had  a quick  beer  and  a shot  at  the  White  Rose, 
and  got  to  the  South  Camden  Shopping  Mall  just  be- 
fore closing.  He  sat  in  a luncheonette,  had  a coffee, 
and  watched  Conabee  and  his  (Employees  leave  at 
seven-thirty.  He  sat  for  another  half  hour,  then  let 
himself  into  the  shop. 

It  was  dark  inside,  and  Baxter  stood  very  still, 
getting  the  feel  of  the  place.  He  could  hear  a lot  of 
clocks  going  at  different  rates,  and  there  was  a 
high-pitched  sound  like  crickets,  and  other  sounds  he 
couldn’t  identify.  He  listened  for  a while,  then  took 
out  his  pocket  flashlight  and  looked  around. 

His  light  picked  out  curious  details:  a scale- 
model  Spad  biplane  with  ten-fcot  wings,  hanging 
from  the  ceiling  and  tilted  as  if  to  attack;  a fat  plastic 
beetle  almost  underfoot;  a model  Centurion  tank 
nearly  five  feet  long.  He  was  standing  in  the  dark  in 
the  midst  of  motionless  toys,  and  beyond  them  he 
could  make  out  the  dim  shapes  of  large  dolls,  stuffed 
animals,  and,  to  one  side,  a silent  jungle  made  of  deli- 
cate shiny  metal. 


30 


It  was  an  uncanny  sort  of  place,  but  Baxter 
was  not  easily  intimidated.  He  got  ready  for  a long 
night.  He  found  a pile  of  cushions,  laid  them  out, 
found  an  ashtray,  took  off  his  overcoat,  and  lay  down. 
Then  he  sat  up  and  took  a cellophane-wrapped  ham 
sandwich,  slightly  squashed,  from  one  pocket,  a can 
of  beer  from  the  other.  He  got  a cigarette  going,  lay 
back,  and  chewed,  drank,  and  smoked  against  a 
background  of  sounds  too  faint  to  be  identified.  One 
of  the  many  clocks  struck  the  hour,  then  the  others 
chimed  in,  and  they  kept  going  for  a long  time. 

He  sat  up  with  a start.  He  realized  that  he  had 
dozed  off.  Everything  seemed,  exactly  the 
same.  Nobody  could  have  unlocked  the  door 
and  slipped  in  past  him,  yet  there  seemed  to  be  more 
light. 

A dim  spotlight  had  come  on,  and  he  could 
hear  spooky  organ  music,  but  faintly,  faintly,  as 
though  from  very  far  away.  Baxter  rubbed  his  nose 
and  stood  up.  Something  moved  beside  his  left  shoul- 
der, and  he  turned  the  flashlight  on  it.  It  was  a life- 
size  puppet  of  Long  John  Silver.  Baxter  laughed 
uncertainly. 

More  lights  came  on,  and  a spotlight  picked 
out  a group  of  thrtie  big  dolls  sitting  at  a table  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  The  papa  doll  was  smoking  a pipe 
and  letting  out  clouds  of  real  smoke,  the  mama  doll 
was  crocheting  a shawl,  and  the  baby  doll  was  crawl- 
ing on  the  floor  and  gurgling. 

Then  a group  of  doll  people  danced  out  in  front 
of  him.  There  were  little  shoemakers  and  tiny  bal- 
lerinas and  a miniature  lion  that  roared  and  shook  its 
mane.  The  metal  jungle  came  to  life,  and  great  me- 
chanical orchids  opened  and  closed.  There  was  a 
squirrel  with  blinking  golden  eyes;  it  cracked  and  ate 
silver  walnuts.  The  organ  music  swelled  up  loud  and 
sweet.  Fluffy  white  doves  settled  on  Baxter’s  shoul- 
ders, and  a bright-eyed  fawn  licked  at  his  fingers. 
The  toys  danced  around  him,  and  for  a moment  Bax- 
ter found  himself  in  the  splendid  lost  world  of  child- 
hood. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a woman’s  laughter. 

“Who’s  there?”  he  called  out. 

She  stepped  forward,  followed  by  a silvery 
spotlight.  She  was  Dorothy  of  Oz,  she  was  Snow 
White,  she  was  Gretel,  she  was  Helen  of  Troy,  she 
was  Rapunzel;  she  was  exquisitely  formed,  almost 
five  feet  tall,  with  crisp  blond  curls  clustered  around 
an  elfin  face.  Her  slight  figure  was  set  off  by  a frilly 
white  shift  tied  around  the  waist  with  a red  ribbon. 
“You’re  that  missing  doll!”  Baxter  exclaimed. 
“So  you  know  about  me,”  she  said.  “I  would 
have  liked  a little  more  time,  so  that  I could  have 
gotten  all  the  toys  performing.  But  it  doesn’t  matter.” 

Baxter,  mouth  agape,  couldn’t  answer.  She 
said,  “The  night  Conabee  assembled  me,  I found  that 


I had  the  gift  of  life.  I was  more  than  a mere 
automaton  — I lived,  I thought,  I desired.  But  I was 
not  complete.  So  I hid  in  the  ventilator  shaft  and  stole 
materials  in  order  to  become  as  I am  now,  and  to 
build  this  wonderland  for  my  creator.  Do  you  think  he 
will  be  proud  of  me?” 

“You’re  beautiful,”  Baxter  said  at  last. 

“But  do  you  think  Mr.  Conabee  will  like  me?” 

“Forget  about  Conabee,”  Baxter  said. 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“It’s  crazy,”  Baxter  said,  “but  I can’t  live  with- 
out you.  We’ll  get  away  from  here,  work  it  out  some- 
how. I’ll  make  you  happy,  babe,  I swear  it!” 

“Never”  she  said.  “Conabee  created  me  and  I 
belong  to  him.” 

“You’re  coming  with  me,”  Baxter  said. 

He  seized  her  hand  and  she  pulled  away  from 
him.  He  yanked  her  toward  him  and  her  hand  came 
off  in  his  grip.  Baxter  gaped  at  it,  then  threw  it  from 
him.  “Goddamn  you!”  he  screamed.  “Come  here!” 

She  ran  from  him.  He  took  out  his  .38  and  fol- 
lowed. The  organ  music  began  to  wander  erratically, 
and  the  lights  were  flickering.  He  saw  her  run  be- 
hind a set  of  great  alphabet  blocks.  He  hurried  after 
her— And  then  the  toys  attacked. 

The  tank  rumbled  into  action.  It  came  at  him 
slow  and  heavy.  Baxter  put  two  slugs  into  it,  tum- 
bling it  across  the  room.  He  caught  a glimpse  of  the 
Spad  diving  toward  hwn,  and  he  shot  it  in  midair, 
squashing  it  against  the  wall  like  a giant  moth.  A 
squad  of  little  mechanical  soldiers  discharged  their 
cork  bullets  at  him,  and  he  kicked  them  out  of  the 
way.  Long  John  Silver  lunged  at  him,  and  his  cutlass 
caught  Baxter  under  the  rib  cage.  But  it  was  only  a 
rubber  sword;  Baxter  pushed  the  pirate  aside  and 
had  her  cornered  behind  the  Punch  and  Judy. 

She  said,  “Please  don’t  hurt  me.” 

He  said,  “Come  with  me!” 

She  shook  her  head  and  tried  to  dodge  him.  He 
grabbed  her  as  she  went  past,  catching  her  by  the 
blond  curls.  She  fell,  and  he  felt  her  head  twist  in  his 
hands,  twist  around  in  a full,  impossible  circle,  so 
that  her  body  was  turned  away  from  him  while  her 
pretty  blue  eyes  still  stared  into  his  face. 

“Never!”  she  said. 

In  a spasm  of  rage  and  revulsion,  Baxter 
yanked  at  her  head.  It  came  off  in  his  hands.  In  the 
neck  stump  he  could  see  bits  of  glass  winking  in  a 
gray  matrix. 

The  mama  and  papa  and  baby  dolls  stopped  in 
midmotion.  Long  John  Silver  collapsed.  The  broken 
doll’s  blue  eyes  btinked  three  times;  then  she  died. 

The  rest  of  the  toys  stopped.  The  organ  faded, 
the  spotlight  went  out,  and  the  last  jungle  flower 
clinked  to  the  floor.  In  the  darkness,  a weeping  fat 
man  knelt  beside  a busted  doll  and  wondered  what  he 
was  going  to  tell  Conabee  in  the  morning.  |0 

31 


AN  ALIENATED  MAN  CONFRONTS  'THE  WORLD'S  SLEAZIEST 
ROADSIDE  ATTRACTION'- AND  ENDS  UP  SHAKING  HANDS  WITH . . . 


by  Timothy  Robert  Sullivan 


Along  Route  31,  from  the  Georgia  border  to 
Key  West,  much  of  the  old  Florida  remains. 
There  one  can  still  spend  the  night  in  a 
roach-infested  “motor  court,”  visit  a roadside  spiritu- 
alist, or  marvel  at  the  lethargic  denizens  of  an  al- 
ligator farm.  This  is  the  Florida  of  Indian-head 
coconuts,  cracked  swimming  pools,  and  concrete 
fountains  claimed  by  their  exhibitors  to  be  the  very 
ones  for  which  Ponce  de  Leon  searched. 

It  was  the  third  time  I had  traversed  old 
Highway  31,  though  I’d  never  done  it  alone  before. 
After  spending  a childhood  of  miserable  solitude,  I 
had  discovered  in  my  teens  that  I could  exploit  my 
freakishness,  that  I could  even  use  it  to  get  girls.  I’d 
gone  dow'n  that  sultry  road  for  the  first  time  with  a 
busload  of  free-wheeling  hippies  back  in  the  smoky 
days  of  fall,  1968.  The  “family”  had  been  smaller  on 
my  second  trip  in  1974;  a blue  Toyota  had  carried  me 
and  Joannie,  a girl  who  saw  in  me  all  the  weird  and 
w'onderful  things  she’d  never  dared  to  do  herself.  The 
results  of  that  romantic  interlude  had  been  preg- 
nancy, marriage,  and  a boy  we  named  Danny.  A real 
family. 

So  for  masochism’s  sake— all  by  myself,  just 
like  when  I was  a kid  — I w'as  heading  down  that  sel- 
dom-traveled road  before  long-distance  driving  be- 
came too  exorbitant.  Besides,  I had  an  expense  ac- 
count; I’d  been  attending  an  exporters’  convention  in 
Atlanta  and  had  left  a day  early,  on  a Thursday  morn- 
ing. That  way  I could  make  a leisurely,  bittersweet 


trek  down  memory  lane.  I wasn’t  planning  to  get 
back  to  work  until  Monday  morning,  so  I had  called 
to  clear  it  with  my  boss.  Okay,  he  had  said,  take  your 
time,  George.  Not  a bad  guy,  Mr.  Noloff,  but  twenty- 
five  years  of  selling  heavy  road  e([uipment  to  banana 
republics  had  instilled  in  him  a certain  dictatorial  air. 
I often  dreamed,  when  he  was  being  particularly  im- 
perious, of  telling  him  off  and  chucking  my  job  at 
Coastal  Trading,  Inc. —but  there  was  always  the 
rent,  the  payments  on  my  year-old  Plymouth  Hori- 
zon, the  alimony,  and,  of  course,  the  child  support,  at 
a time  when  the  price  of  a loaf  of  bread  approached  a 
buck. 

The  grinding  white  blues  guitar  of  Johnny 
Winter  vibrated  through  a loose  tweeter.  I turned  it 
up  anyway,  cruising  over  the  rolling  hills  of  central 
Florida,  orange  groves  sliding  by  on  either  side  of  the 
pot-holed  two-lane  blacktop.  A curved  damask  strip 
of  late  afternoon  sunlight  melted  into  the  treetops  as 
I passed  a tattered  sign  announcing,  “Monsters, 
Beasts,  Freaks  of  Nature,  Just  Ahead,  SR  74,”  in 
pastel  colors  that  had  once  been  lurid. 

“This,”  I said  over  Johnny’s  melodic  growls, 
“has  got  to  be  the  world’s  sleazit^st  roadside  attrac- 
tion.” 

My  tank  was  almost  empty,  and  there  weren’t 
any  open  gas  stations  in  sight,  but  I wasn’t  worried. 
There  hadn’t  been  a lit  neon  No  in  front  of  Vacancy 
on  any  of  these  fleabags’  signs  in  years;  they  were  all 
dying  for  business.  I would  spend  the  night  in  this 


32 


Illustration  by  Chris  Pelletiere 


next  town— whatever  tow-n  it  was— and  search  for 
fuel  in  the  morning. 

The  Horizon  turned  easily  into  the  parking  lot 
of  the  Azalea  Motel,  a low,  pink  building  with  rust 
stains  bleeding  through  the  walls  from  the  reinforc- 
ing steel  rods  beneath  the  concrete.  Such  establish- 
ments rarely  have  lobbies,  and  the  Azalea  was  no  ex- 
ception. Inside  the  cramped  manager’s  office,  a fat 
woman  sat  in  the  arctic  gale  of  a Fedders  air  con- 
ditioner, watching  Hee-Haw.  She  couldn’t  hear  me 
over  the  motor’s  throb  and  the  laugh  track,  but  soon 
subdued  strains  of  sweet  country  music  replaced  the 
canned  yoks,  making  conversation  barely  possible.  I 
negotiated  a room  key,  but  she  didn’t  let  it  go  at  that. 

“You  look  like  the  type  might  wanna  see  the 
freak  show,”  she  said. 

It  had  been  some  time  since  an  adult  had  made 
such  a reference  to  my  albinism.  I always  explain  to 
children  about  the  lack  of  pigmentation  that  makes 
my  skin  so  white,  but  this  woman  was  no  child.  I 
glared  at  her  . . . and  she  glared  right  back  until  I 
lowered,  my  eyes  to  the  guest  book. 

“I’m  Mrs.  Nickerson,”  she  said  as  I signed  my 
name.  “Bump— that’s  my  husband  — ain’t  here  right 
now.”  She  eyed  my  suitcase  as  if  it  were  a dangerous 
animal. 

“Oh.”  I assumed  she  was  trying  to  tell  me  she 
wasn’t  taking  my  bag  to  my  room  for  me.  “Just  point 
me  in  the  right  direction.” 

“Ain’t  but  one  direction.”  She  gestured  to  her 

left. 

“Uh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Nickerson.”  I hefted  my 
bag,  key  dangling  from  my  free  hand,  and  went  back 
out  into  the  still  considerable  heat  like  a good  boy. 
Sunset  had  now  created  a peach-colored  world,  ex- 
cept for  blood  red  ixora,  yellow  hibiscus,  and  purple 
bougainvillea  whose  roots  snaked  into  the  broken 
walk  alongside  the  motel.  I didn’t  see  any  azaleas. 

The  room  wasn’t  as  bad  as  I expected:  ply- 
board  walls;  a reasonably  unlumpy  mattress  sheathed 
in  fresh  linen;  a lamp  shade  emblazoned  with  a horse’s 
head,  the  animal’s  sensitive  eyes  gazing  longingly  to- 
ward the  alcove  harboring  the  sink  (Why  don’t  motels 
ever  have  sinks  in  the  bathrooms?);  clean  white  to- 
wels; a color  tv  with  a sick  tube,  making  the  actors 
look  a little  bilious;  a slightly  musty  smell;  and  a 
shower,  which  I promptly  tried  out. 

After  cleaning  up,  I decided  to  go  for  a walk. 
There  were  three  vehicles  besides  mine  in  the  park- 
ing lot.  One  was  a green  Ford  pickup  loaded  with 
sacks  of  peat  moss.  A big  man,  fat,  fiftyish,  and  sun- 
burned, was  finishing  the  loading.  He  wore  a white 
undershirt,  the  kind  with  shoulder  straps,  and  his 
few  remaining  hairs  were  plastered  to  his  creased 
skull  with  hair  cream.  Once  he  noticed  me  and  nod- 
ded, I asked  him  if  he  was  by  any  chance  Bump  Nick- 
erson. 

34 


“None  other,”  he  replied,  wiping  sweat  from 
his  brow.  He  shook  my  hand,  and  then  leaned  against 
the  tailgate  while  I asked  him  what  went  on  in  these 
parts. 

“Florabella  Tavern’s  closed  for  renovations. 
There’s  a movie  in  Apopka,  but  that’s  twenty-five 
mile.  Ain’t  much  in  Boca  Blanca  nowadays.” 

“I  guess  there  wouldn’t  be.” 

So  that  was  the  name  of  this  burg:  Boca  Blanca 
or  “the  White  Mouth,”  if  my  rudimentary  Spanish 
didn’t  fail  me.  Funny,  I thought,  6oca— “mouth” — 
always  refers  to  a bay  or  inlet,  but  this  hoca  is 
nowhere  near  the  Atlantic  or  Gulf  coasts  ... 

“No  sir,”  Bump  agreed.  “No  sir.” 

“Apopka’s  got  the  closest  entertainment,  huh?” 
No  place  to  lose  myself  here,  like  there  was  in  Miami 
when  my  loneliness  became  intolerable.  “What  about 
the  freak  show?” 

“’At’s  the  on’y  thing  till  t he  Florabella  opens 
up  agin.”  Bump  shrugged.  “Course,  it’s  a little  off  the 
beaten  path.” 

“Oh,  yeah?”  I’d  always  had  a penchant  for  the 
bizarre,  and  this  seemed  a sufficiently  mysterious  di- 
version to  cure  my  melancholy.  “How  do  I get  there?” 

“South  two  mile,  then  a left  jis’  past  the  canal 
bridge.  She’s  down  the  jog  road  there  another  mile  or 
so.” 

I thanked  Bump,  got  into  the  Horizon,  and  set 
out  to  see  the  Fat  Lady,  the  Dog-faced  Boy,  or  what- 
ever exotic  creatures  might  infest  Boca  Blanca’s  ver- 
sion of  the  big  top.  Odd  that  it  was  located  off  the 
main  road,  I thought.  As  the  stars  brightened  over 
the  darkening  orange  groves,  I e.xpected  to  hear  the 
pizzicato  guitar  that  used  to  preface  The  Twilight 
Zone. 

“George  Hallahan,”  Rod  Serling’s  gravelly 
voice  intoned  inside  my  skull,  “thirty-two  years  old. 
A rather  peculiar-looking  idealist  who  once  foolishly 
thought  he  could  help  fashion  a better  world  out  of  a 
cloud  of  cannabis  smoke.  George  found  that  he 
couldn’t  even  hold  his  own  life  together,  much  less  an 
ailing  society.  Now,  driving  on  a back  road  in  Florida, 
the  disillusioned  albino  ex-hippie  exporter  is  headed 
straight  toward— ’’Straight  toward  a tacky  freak 
show’.  Appropriate. 

The  stigma  of  albinism  hadn’t  been  quite  so 
bad  in  the  New  England  tow'n  where  I’d 
spent  the  first  eight  years  of  my  life.  A bout 
of  rheumatic  fever  had  made  me  unable  to  tolerate 
the  cold  weather,  however,  and  my  father,  a civil  ser- 
vant, had  taken  a job  in  Miami  at  my  mom’s  instiga- 
tion. So  for  my  sake  the  family  had  gone  south,  and 
I’d  grown  up  a ghostly  exile  among  the  bronzed  gods 
and  goddesses. 

Then  came  the  Summer  of  Love.  I’d  grown  my 
white  hair  long,  and  wasted  people  had  thought  I was 


/ sef  out  to  see 
the  Fat  Lady, 
the  Dog -faced  Boy, 
or  whatever  exotic 
creatures  might  infest 
Boca  Blanca's  version 
of  the  big  top. 
Odd  that  it  was 
located  off 
the  main  road  . . . 


far  out.  There  hadn’t  been  a cynical  bone  in  my  body 
the  first  time  I’d  dropped  acid,  at  a rock  festival  near 
Orlando  (even  aftei’  I’d  recovered  from  the  severe 
case  of  sun  poisoning  I got  from  dancing  naked  under 
the  blazing  sun),  but  reality  had  intruded  during  my 
radical  college  days.  The  tear  gas  and  truncheons  the 
cops  wielded  at  the  Miami  Beach  conventions  in  ’72 
had  taught  me  a valuable  lesson  about  the  way  things 
are  as  opposed  to  the  way  I thought  they  ought  to  be. 

Then  fhere’d  been  the  courtship  of  Joannie, 
culminating  at  the  Saturn  Motor  Lodge  on  good  ol’ 
Route  31.  Love?  I don’t  know;  looking  back,  I think  I 
just  had  to  have  her  because  she  was  such  a nice  girl. 
Cute,  brunette,  upper  middle  class  background  — 
what  more  could  I have  asked  for?  Not  that  she  was 
guiltless  in  this  bizarre  misalliance  of  woman  and 
freak.  How  neat  it  must  have  seemed  to  her  murky, 
developing  social  consciousness  to  miscegenate  with  a 
misfit.  Shortly  thereafter,  Danny’s  birth  had 
squelched  that  particular  fantasy,  forcing  my  capitu- 
lation to  the  ogre  of  capitalism  in  the  bargain.  Every 
single  one  of  these  misadventures  had  been  a failure 
in  some  painfully  essential  way,  each  taking  a bigger 
chunk  of  my  soul  than  the  last. 

By  the  time  I got  to  the  canal  bridge,  I 
couldn’t  stop  thinking  of  Danny.  I hadn’t  wanted  a 
child,  judging  the  two  of  us  as  far  too  immature  for 
such  a responsibility,  but  Joannie  had  refused  to  con- 
sider abortion.  I’d  never  told  her  how  scared  I was 
that  the  child  would  be  a freak  like  me.  But  when  I 
saw  that  normal,  beautiful  baby,  I was  happy  for  the 
one  and  only  time  in  my  life. 

At  first  Danry  had  been  kind  of  a novelty,  but 
when  he  got  a little  older  and  we  started  to  get  to 
know  each  other,  I think  we  were  more  than  father 
and  son.  We  were  friends.  Still,  the  bickering  be- 
tween Joannie  and  me  had  gotten  worse  — and  oh,  she 
always  had  a sharpi  tongue.  When  we’d  finally  de- 
cided to  split,  there’d  never  been  any  doubt  about 
who  was  better  suited  to  bring  up  Danny.  I was  an 
aging  albino  hippie  earning  a shaky  income  from  the 
exporting  trade.  She  was  solidly  establishment;  she’d 
never  touched  a drug,  never  even  smoked  a cigarette. 
I knew  it  was  only  right,  and  yet  I resented  her  for 
the  way  things  had  turned  out. 


A year  had  passed  since  she’d  taken  my  son 
away  from  me.  He’d  been  only  five  when  his  home  fell 
apart.  On  Sunday  he’d  be  celebrating  his  sixth  birth- 
day, and  his  father  was  too  scared  of  a verbal  whip- 
ping (“Why  don’t  you  get  a job  where  you  can  make 
enough  money  to  provide  the  things  Danny  needs?’’) 
to  come  help  Danny  blow  out  the  candles.  I’d  have  to 
mail  the  boy  a present  in  the  morning.  Would  it  get  to 
Miami  in  time? 

The  jog  road  was  dusty  and  bumpy  as  the 
night  descended.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
canal  there  were  no  orange -groves,  just  pal- 
metto clumps  and  Florida  pines.  Down  the  road  was 
a building  made  of  cinder  blocks,  one  story  high  with 
no  windows  in  the  front,  like  a porn  parlor.  The  build- 
ing was  flanked  by  two  sago  palms  in  the  terminal 
stages  of  the  region’s  lethal  yellowing  disease,  their 
drooping  fronds  like  black  spiders’  legs  in  the  deepen- 
ing gloom. 

I parked  in  front,  the  Horizon  bogging  down  in 
the  sugary  sand.  I wondered  if  its  wheels  would  be 
able  to  spin  free,  and,  if  not,  whether  Boca  Blanca 
had  a wrecker.  As  I walked  toward  the  building,  I 
reflected  that  mine  had  not  always  been  such  a de- 
featist attitude. 

A light  around  the  building’s  side  threw  a 
patch  of  amber  on  the  sand.  There  was  a screen  door 
and  what  looked  like  a»  kitchen  beyond  it.  I took  a 
whiff  of  jasmine-scented  air  and  rapped. 

From  within  came  a stirring,  a rustling  of 
paper,  the  creak  of  a chair  sliding  across  the  floor, 
footsteps;  there  was  no  television  or  radio  to  dilute 
these  intimate  sounds,  only  the  chirruping  of  crick- 
ets. A shadow  appeared  on  the  screen,  followed  by 
a thin,  stooped  old  man  in  baggy  pants.  He  was 
smiling. 

“I’ve,  uh,  come  to  see  the  freak  show,”  I said. 
He  nodded  and  unhooked  the  screen  door. 
“Through  here,”  he  said,  leading  me  through  a room 
filled  with  books  and  magazines,  literary  and  scien- 
tific journals,  in  a state  of  disarray  on  tables,  sofa, 
and  floor.  Curiouser  and  curiouser. 

The  back  door  opened  into  a dark  shed,  and 
the  old  man  pulled  a dangling  string,  illuminating  a 
naked  hundred-watt  bulb  that  cast  swinging  shadows 
on  four  small  cages  and  something  draped  with  a 
greasy  cloth.  The  cages  were  of  pine  and  chicken 
wire.  In  them  were  four  unfortunate  animals  — not 
the  usual  circus  freaks,  but  strange  enough  in  their 
various  ways. 

How  do  you  define  a freak,  anyway?  The  word 
is  used  to  hurt  more  often  than  to  inform  or  amuse. 
At  least  these  creatures  would  never  know  what 
people  called  them. 

The  most  striking  of  the  animals  was  a two- 
headed  calf.  One  of  the  heads  was  a shrunken,  lolling 


35 


ZEKE 


I appendage  with  dead  eyes  and  flaccid  lips,  but  the 
I rest  of  the  calf  looked  healthy  enough. 

In  spite  of  the  terrible  stench,  I moved  closer 
to  the  cages.  Next  to  the  calf,  so  help  me,  was  a 
snake  with  legs.  Spindly  little  useless  things,,  but  four 
limbs  nonetheless.  It  was  asleep  oh  a pile  of  hay  in- 
side its  two-foot-square  prison. 

Then  there  was  a “giant  lizard,”  as  the  old  man 
called  it— nothing  but  an  iguana. 

The  fourth  cage  held  a featherless  chicken,  its 
hideously  pocked  flesh  a repulsive  sight.  In  its 
nakedness,  the  fowl  resembled  a scrawny  old  man.  It 
stared  at  me  so  murderously  that  it  must  have 
thought  I’d  plucked  it  myself. 

“Donations  appreciated,”  my  host  said  as  he 
shuffled  toward  the  door. 

’ “Uh,  fine.  But  I don’t  think  I’ve  seen  every- 

* thing  yet,  have  I?”  I turned  toward  the  thing  under 
; the  greasy  cloth;  the  cage  beneath  appeared  to  be 
i circular  at  the  top,  unlike  the  others. 

I Hitching  up  his  troupers,  the  old  man  looked 

! from  me  to  the  covered  object  and  back  again. 

; “Well...” 

■ I waited.  The  old  man  clearly  didn’t  want  to 
: show  me  what  was  under  that  cloth,  which  naturally 
! made  me  want  to  see  it  all  the  more. 

I “He’s  asleep,  I think.” 

! “He?” 

The  old  man  didn’t  seem  to  hear  me.  He  lifted 
a corner  of  the  cloth  and  peeked  under  it.  “No,  it’s  all 
right ...  if  you’re  sure  you  want  to  see  him.” 

“Yes.” 

Without  ceremony,  he  undraped  a large  glass 
terrarium,  standing  back  with  the  greasy  cloth  in  his 
gnarled  farmer’s  hands. 

I don’t  know  how  long  I stood  there  with  my 
mouth  open,  staring  at  that  incredible  sight.  I re- 
member the  old  man  speaking  to  me  as  if  in  a dream: 
“That’s  the  way  most  folks  act  when  they  see  him.” 
j The  thing  was  an  albino  monkey  . . . No,  the 

white  fur  was  flesh  . . . bald,  like  the  chicken  . . . 

I arms  and  legs  bent  at  ridiculous  angles,  as  stooped  as 
; the  old  man  ... 

j No,  not  stooped.  The  impossible  thing  stood 

I erect  on  a bed  of  dark  chips.  Its  joints  suggested  a 
Rube  Goldberg  cartoon  in  their  complexity.  With  del- 
icate, hinged  hands  much  too  large  for  its  eighteen- 
inch  body,  it  grasped  the  lip  of  the  terrarium,  gazing 
at  me  from  between  its  pipe-stem  arms  with  crimson 
i eyes. 

It  was  a mockery,  an  image  from  a fun-house 
mirror  in  a nightmare.  As  if  to  imitate  my  gape,  the 
creature  opened  its  mouth,  revealing  a ribbed  white- 
ness inside,  a furrowed  snowfield  here  in  the  stifling 

■ Florida  summer.  No  sound  came  from  it. 

The  chicken  clucked,  the  sound  bringing  me  a 
little  closer  to  reality.  Without  taking  my  eyes  off  the 

36 


creature,  I whispered:  “What  is  it?” 

“He,”  the  old  man  corrected  me.  “He’s  a per- 
son. Might  look  and  act  a little  different,  but  he’s 
folks.  Just  like  me  . . . Just  like  you.” 

“What?”  I glanced  at  him  to  see  if  he  was  goad- 
ing me  as  Mrs.  Nickerson  had  at  the  motel.  But  there 
was  no  malice  in  his  weather-beaten  face.  He  nodded 
at  the  strange  creature. 

“Ain’t  he  sum’p’n?” 

“Where  did  you  get  him?” 

“Well,  he’s  been  livin’  with  me  since  I was,  let’s 
see  . . . twenty-six.  Before  that  he  stayed  with  ol’  Bo 
Wadley  till  Bo  passed  away,  and  Bo  told  me  his  daddy 
kept  him  ’fore  Bo  was  born,  (haimed  he  was  livin’  I 
around  here  ’fore  white  men  ever  come  to  Florida.” 

“Boca  Blanca,”  I said.  A revelation.  Perhaps 
the  Spanish  had  named  their  set  tlement  for  this  crea- 
ture four  centuries  ago.  “But  how  could  he  have  been 
around  so  long?” 

The  old  man  sucked  on  his  false  teeth.  “Jis’ 
longer  lived  than  us,  I guess.” 

“What  does  he  eat?”  i 

“Dead  plants,  rotten  wood,  peat  moss.  Takes  a j 
little  water  with  it.” 

I could  make  out  the  baroque  pattern  of  the 
ribs,  a surrealist  structure  beneath  striated  bands  of 
muscle  and  smooth,  milky  flesh.  The  physique  was 
vaguely  humanoid,  but  the  gleaming  red  eyes  were  j 
unfathomable.  The  features  were  grotesque  enough, 
but  that  mouth  twisted  the  ridged  skull  into  a painful 
prognathous  expression  that  opened  like  a funnel— a 
scream  of  silence  that  touched  a chord  inside  me. 


"Not  ever' body  knows 
what  they  seein' 
when  they  come  in  here" 
the  old  man  said, 
frowning.  "Bump's  wife 
thinks  to  this  day 
he's  /if s'  some  kinda 
hairless  monkey." 


“Why  do  you  keep  him  in  this  shed  with  these 
deformed  animals?”  I demanded. 

“Why,  it  was  his  idea,”  the  old  man  said  re- 
proachfully. “We  got  to  have  money  to  git  along  on,  so 
he  come  up  with  the  idea  of  a freak  show  some  years 
back.  After  a while,  he  got  in  the  habit  of  sleepin’  out 
here,  sorta  keepin’  a eye  on  things.” 

“His  idea?  Did  I hear  you  right?” 

“Yup.  He’s  smart  as  a whip.  Showed  me  where 
to  find  these  critters  — ’cept  for  the  lizard.  Him  we 
bought  from  a pet  shop  in  Orlando.” 

“This  is  beyond  belief.”  I shook  my  head. 
“He’s,  he’s  . . .” 

“Sum’p’n,  ain’t  he?”  It  was  Bump,  carrying  a 
sack  of  peat  moss  through  the  shed  door. 

“You’re  in  on  this,  too?”  I asked. 

“In  on  what?”  Bump  said.  “I  run  a garden  s’ply 
ever  since  the  interstate  highway  and  Disneyworld 
pulled  the  rug  out  from  under  the  motel  bidness. 
Once  a week  I bring  Zeke  out  some  peat  moss.” 

“Zeke!”  I laughed,  remembering  the  old  gospel 
song  about  Ezekiel’s  “dry  bones,”  an  image  that  per- 
fectly suggested  the  creature  in  the  terrarium. 

“Got  to  call  him  sum’p’n,”  Bump  said,  and  he 
laughed  too.  “Never  did  tell  us  what  his  right  name 
is.” 

“Prob’ly  where  he  come  from,”  the  old  man 
said,  “they  don’t  have  names  same  as  we  do.” 

“Where  he  comes  from. . .”  The  thought  in- 
spired awe,  wonder. 

“A  long  ways  away,”  Bump  said  softly.  “A  long 

ways.” 

“Another  world,”  I said,  even  more  quietly. 

The  old  man  was  grave,  and  none  of  us  spoke 
while  we  considered  the  implications  of  what  we’d 
just  said. 

After  a while  Bump  tore  open  the  sack,  scoop- 
ing out  some  peat  moss  with  a meaty  hand  and  drop- 
ping it  into  the  terrarium.  Zeke’s  twiglike  fingers, 
catching  the  offering,  were  nearly  as  long  as  Bump’s. 
Instead  of  eating  in  front  o'f  us,  Zeke  set  the  peat 
moss  chips  among  those  already  spread  on  the  floor 
of  his  terrarium. 

“Not  ever’body  knows  what  they  seein’  when 
they  come  in  here,”  the  old  man  said,  frowning. 
“Bump’s  wife  now,  she  don’t  care  for  things  that  are 
. . . different.” 


“So  I noticed,”  I said. 

“She  thinks  to  this  day  he’s  jis’  some  kinda 
hairless  monkey.” 

“Hell,  Levon,”  Bump  said,  “she  never  stuck 
around  long  enough  to  see  him  read  and  write,  and 
she  never  would  believe  me.  Rayette  can’t  hardly 
read  herself,  and  she  don’t  want  to  nohow'.  It’s  all  she 
can  do  to  set  in  front  of  that  damn  teevee  all  day 
long.” 

Having  vented  his  spleen.  Bump  stuck  his 
hand  inside  the  terrarium.  Grasping  tw'o  fingers, 
Zeke  allowed  himself  to  be  lifted  out  and  set  on  the 
straw-covered  shed  floor.  He  was  wearing  a tiny  pair 
of  beige  shorts. 

It  seemed  wrong  for  Zeke  to  be  here.  My  fitful 
sense  of  social  morality  awakened  briefly  as  I consid- 
ered our  Duty  to  Mankind.  “Kennedy  Space  Center’s 
not  far,”  I said.  “Why  don’t  you  let  somebody  over 
there  have  a look  at  him?” 

“Let  him  ’splain  about  things  hisself,”  Levon 

said. 

The  diminutive  alien  led  us  inside  the  house  in 
a jerkily  articulated  walk,  the  calf  lowing  as  Levon 
closed  the  shed  door.  The  adjoining  room  was  littered 
with  reading  material.  Next  to  a battered  old  sofa,  a 
slate  leaned  against  one  of  the  cinder  block  w'alls. 
Zeke  picked  up  a piece  of  chalk  and  WTote:  “I  have  no 
desire  to  go  anywhere.” 

“Maybe  they  could  get  you  back  home  some- 
day,” I said. 

“By  the  time  your  spacecraft  are  able  to  go 
that  far,”  he  wrote  in  carefully  blocked-in  letters,  “I 
will  no  longer  be  living.” 

“But  the  things  you  must  know!”  I protested. 
“Don’t  you  want  to  share  them  with  us?  Help  us?” 

Zeke  bowed,  showing  two  pinpricks  on  top  of 
his  snowy  skull  that  I took  to  be  his  ears.  The  chalk 
squeaked  in  the  still  room  as  he  wrote:  “My 
technological  expertise  is  limited,  but  even  if  it 
weren’t,  there  would  be  difficulties.” 

“Difficulties?” 

“In  bypassing  so  many  levels  of  technical 
sophistication.” 

“I  see.” 

I had  skipped  third  grade.  Adjusting  to  life  in 
fourth  grade  had  been  hell,  intellectually  and  emo- 
tionally. At  least  the  kids  my  age  had  been  used  to 
“Whitey,”  as  I’d  come  to  be  called.  The  bigger  kids 
had  really  put  me  through  the  meat  grinder,  and  I’d 
had  trouble  with  my  math,  too.  I,  too,  had  found  it 
difficult  to  bypass  a level  of  sophistication,  and  a very 
small  level  at  that: 

Taking  an  eraser  caked  wdth  chalk  dust,  Zeke 
wdped  the  slate  clean  and  wrote:  “How  well  does  the 
average  human  being  understand  the  principle  behind 
a machine  he  or  she  uses  every  day?” 

“Like  television?”  I was  amused  to  think  of 


37 


ZEKE 


Rayette  Nickerson  contributing  to  our  discussion. 

“Yes,  television,”  Zeke  wrote,  “or  even  an  au- 
tomobile? Our  machines  were  autonomous.  They  built 
themselves,  maintained  themselves,  but  were  still 
slaves  to  do  our  bidding.  I couldn’t  begin  to  show  you 
how  to  make  even  the  simplest  of  them.” 

So  much  for  saviors  from  the  stars.  Still,  there 
was  wonder  enough  here,  even  without  miracles. 
“But  how  did  you  end  up  on  Earth?”  I asked.  “Where 
did  you  come  from?” 

Instead  of  answering,  Zeke  beckoned  for  me  to 
follow  him  through  the  kitchen.  With  both  hands,  he 
pushed  open  the  groaning  screen  door  and  went  out- 
side. The  stars  gleamed  like  ice  and  the  night  breeze 
was  cool,  drying  the  sweat  on  my  forehead.  It  took 
me  a moment  to  identify  a pungent  odor  wafting  over 
the  jasmine  as  Zeke.  I hadn’t  noticed  his  exotic  smell 
inside  the  house  because  of  the  animals,  whose  odor 
persisted  even  into  the  living  room.  His  aroma  sur- 
surprised  me  because  I had  already  come  to  regard 
him  as  human,  perhaps  more  like  me  than  anyone  I’d 
ever  known.  It  wasn’t  unpleasant,  it  was  just  . . . 
different. 

With  a little  flourish,  Zeke  indicated  the  heav- 
ens. Overhead  were  Venus  and  Mars,  and  in  the  west 
was  Jupiter.  The  Pleiades  were  peripherally  visible, 
hard  to  see  when  I looked  directly  at  them.  Just  to 
the  north  were  Perseus  and  Cassiopeia,  frozen  in  an 
eternal  marital  spat— like  Joannie  and  me.  Happiness 
seemed  as  unattainable  as  Zeke’s  planet. 

“He  never  tells  how  he  come  here,”  Levon  said, 
“or  why.  And  you  can  ask  him  till  you’re  blue  in  the 
face.  When  he  don’t  want  to  talk  about  sum’p’n,  he 
jis’  don’t  talk.” 

We  stood  in  the  moonlight  by  two  sickly  palms. 
Zeke’s  crimson  eyes  were  dispassionate.  Had  my  ini- 
tial impression  of  anguish  been  nothing  more  than  a 
distorted  projection  of  my  own  pain? 

Then  Zeke’s  mouth  jutted  forward,  widening 
once  again  into  that  terrible  silent  scream.  As  though 
in  sympathetic  reaction,  the  night  sounds  of  insects 
and  hoot  owls  quieted.  Zeke  lifted  a hand,  opening  his 
fingers  as  if  to  grasp  the  stars  and  pull  them  to  the 
earth.  His  entire  body  trembled  while  he  stretched 
onto  the  tips  of  his  splayed  feet.  Then  he  slumped  so 
close  to  the  sand  that  I thought  he  would  fall,  but  he 
managed  to  stay  on  his  feet.  He  stood  there  staring 
down  at  the  crabgrass. 

My  face  felt  flushed;  a drop  of  perspiration 
rolled  down  my  forehead  in  spite  of  the  cool  breeze. 
This  painful  vision  had  touched  something  in  me,  and 
I had  to  look  away. 

I said  goodbye  to  Bump  and  Levon.  I could 
see,  from  their  homely  faces,  that  they  understood 
their  friend’s  anguish.  Taking  a five-dollar  bill  from 
my  wallet,  I slipped  it  to  Levon  as  a donation. 

“He  gits  tired,”  Levon  said. 

3S 


I nodded  and,  without  turning  back,  walked 
the  few  yards  to  my  car. 

I felt,  rather  than  heard,  Zeke  behind  me.  My 
hand  on  the  open  car  door,  I turned  to  him  and  squat- 
ted so  that  we  were  more  or  less  on  eye  level. 

In  the  dim  illumination  from  the  car’s  dome 
light,  Zeke  raised  his  fragile  hands  to  touch  mine.  I 
stretched  out  my  fingers  and  their  tips  met  his.  His 
fingers  were  warm,  and  I seemed  to  feel  emotion 
pass  from  them  to  me.  Something  passed  from  me, 
too.  Something  sour  and  ugly  I had  been  carrying 
around  far  too  long.  Zeke  absorbed  it  like  a sponge. 

I won’t  say  that  I was  suddenly  whole,  like  the 
laying  on  of  hands  is  supposed  to  make  you.  I was 
just  relieved.  Not  a revelation  or  a cleansing,  but  an 
exchange,  a sharing.  Zeke  shared  my  pain  . . . and  I 
shared  his. 

It  took  only  an  instant,  and  then  our  fingertips 
parted.  I stood,  still  transfixed  by  Zeke’s  ruby  eyes. 
They  no  longer  seemed  dispassionate;  I had,  for  a 
moment,  seen  through  them.  There  was  no  sudden, 
transcendent  image  of  an  alien  v orld,  only  the  feeling 
of  a loss  so  great  that  acceptance  had  been  the  only 
alternative  to  death.  My  problems  seemed  so  insignif- 
icant next  to  Zeke’s  that  I felt  ashamed  of  myself  for 
wallowing  in  self-pity. 

“So  long,  Zeke,”  I said,  “and  thanks.”  I got  in 
the  car  and  shut  the  door,  the  dome  light  winking  out 
and  leaving  Zeke  a vague,  pale  shape  in  the  darkness. 

I started  the  motor  and  backed  out  of  the  sand 
with  no  problem.  As  I headed  toward  Route  31,  there 
were  three  shrinking  silhouettes  in  the  rearview  mir- 
ror, two  men  and  the  small  figure  of  a being  from 
another  world.  Was  he  an  exile,  a fugitive,  a lost 
traveler?  He  would  die  on  this  planet,  yet  he’d  made 
the  best  of  things. 

Next  morning,  as  I walked  down  to  the  office 
to  pay  my  bill,  I noticed  that  Bump’s  pickup 
wasn’t  in  the  parking  lot  . Maybe  he  had  spent 
the  night  at  Levon’s,  or  maybe  he  was  just  out  early, 
delivering  garden  supplies  to  some  of  his  more  con- 
ventional customers. 

Mrs.  Nickerson’s  manners  hadn’t  improved. 
She  was  watching  Bowling  for  Dollars , but  turned 
grudgingly  away  to  take  my  money.  While  I signed 
my  check,  she  asked:  “So  you  seen  the  freak?” 

I looked  straight  at  her,  masking  my  hostility. 
“Yes,  I did.  Don’t  you  think  we  look  a lot  alike?” 

The  smirk  vanished  from  her  puffy  face;  of- 
fended, she  turned  stiffly  back  to  her  television 
program. 

I smiled.  My  question  hadn’t  been  a joke. 

It  was  already  sweltering  and  muggy  at  half 
past  eight,  but  I walked  out  of  that  air-conditioned 
office  whistling.  After  all,  I still  had  plenty  of  time  to 
make  it  back  for  Danny’s  birthday  party.  @ 


HE  WORE  THE  HATED  BADGE  OF  THE  PARIAH. 

WHY  SHOULD  THE  WORLD  CARE  WHAT  WAS  IN  HIS  HEART? 


The  road  was  a relic  of  the  past:  a six-lane 
highway  complete  with  a wide,  planted  me- 
dian. Overgrown,  most  of  the  median  plants 
had  died;  only  a few  stubborn  oleanders  survived, 
battling  the  weeds,  crabgrass,  and  summer  drought. 
The  lane-divider  stripes  had  faded  to  a dull  gray,  and, 
poking  through  cracks  in  the  asphalt,  bunches  of 
golden  field  grass  decorated  the  pavement. 

40 


Bypassing  the  village,  the  highway  stretched 
to  the  western  horizon,  separating  fields  of  yellow 
hay,  cutting  between  rolling  hills  dotted  with  black 
oak.  Framed  by  the  orange-pink  sky,  a dark  figure 
walked  beside  the  median.  It  was  a man.  He  was 
burdened  with  a backpack  and  v/as  ambling  in  the  en- 
ergy-conserving gait  of  an  experienced  wanderer. 

Nearing  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  the  man 


Illustration  by  Jos6  Reyes 


stopped.  Shading  his  eyes,  he  glanced  back,  watching 
the  sun  disappear;  then  he  turned  and  walked  across 
the  three  lanes.  He  stopped  on  the  road  shoulder, 
looking  down  the  main  street— the  only  real 
street— of  the  village. 

His  shoulders  were  rounded  and  slumped  as  if 
he  carried  a much  heavier  load  than  the  backpack.  He 
carried  a carved  and  polished  walking  stick,  his  only 
adornment— except  for  his  color.  Clothes,  backpack, 
hair,  beard,  all  exposed  skin  from  head  to  foot:  the 
man  was  the  color  of  dark  blue  ink.  Indigo. 

The  indigo  man  saw  no  one  on  the  village 
street,  not  even  a dog:  supper  time. 

Cautiously  he  walked  into  the  village,  inspect- 
ing the  buildings  as  he  moved  down  the  center  of  the 
street.  His  search  v/as  specific,  not  the  unmotivated 
curiosity  of  an  idler.  Above  the  general  store  a faded 
sign  read.  Enjoy  Coca-Cola.  He’d  seen  the  red- 
and-white  signs  in  many  villages,  advertising  a bev- 
erage that  was  no  longer  made.  On  both  sides  of  the 
street,  the  houses  v'ere  identical,  square  boxes  peel- 
ing a grayish  paint.  He  stepped  around  the  hummer- 
pad  at  the  center  of  the  town.  The  circular  disc  of 
concrete  with  steps,  ramps,  and  railings  was  well 
maintained,  at  odds  with  the  general  appearance  of 
other  structures. 

Continuing  down  the  street,  the  indigo  man 
passed  a school,  the  post  office,  a few  more  houses, 
and  finally  paused  at  the  edge  of  town  before  a small, 
dirty  building.  Yes,  there  was  the  sign  over  the  door, 
dusty  but  legible:  C.  P.  Hostel. 

Sighing,  the  indigo  man  stepped  to  the  heavy 
oaken  door;  he  placed  the  palm  of  his  hand  against  a 
metallic  sensor  inset  in  the  door  and  waited,  knowing 
that  somewhere  a computer  recorded  his  identity  and 
noted  his  location. 

A whirr  and  a click.  The  door  swung  in. 

Taking  one  tentative  step  inside,  the  indigo 
man  looked  about  the  large  single  room.  It  looked  and 
smelled  like  a barracks:  neat  and  clean.  At  the  far 
end,  arranged  in  a row  across  the  hall,  were  five  old- 
style  military  bunks,  all  made  up,  with  hospital  folds. 
Behind  the  bunks  Vv'ere  two  doors  labeled  M and  W. 
Immediately  in  front  of  him  was  a heavy  wooden  din- 
ing table  w’ith  ten  chairs  of  matching  black  oak.  To 
his  right  was  a recreation  area:  a card  table  with  sev- 
eral open  books  and  a half  circle  of  folding  chairs, 
ringing  a blank  holoview  bowl. 

As  his  gaze  moved  around  the  room,  the 
wrinkles  on  the  indigo  man’s  forehead  deepened  into 
a frown. 

He  was  alone! 

Setting  his  pack  and  stick  at  the  head  of  the 
dining  table,  he  stepped  to  a bank  of  machines  along 
the  left  wall.  Near  the  selector  buttons  on  each  ma- 
chine was  a sensor  identical  to  the  door  plate.  He 
palmed  the  sensor  on  the  food  machine  and  waited. 


Whirr.  After  receiving  his  selections,  he  returned  to 
the  table.  He  ate  mechanically,  chewing  each  mouth- 
ful of  stew'  thoroughly  before  washing  it  down  wdth 
the  w'eak  ale. 

Finished  with  the  meal,  he  stepped  back  to  the 
machine  bank  and  returned  to  his  place  with  a cap- 
sule of  Shadowsmok.  Breaking  the  ampule,  he  in- 
haled the  shadowy  blue  smoke.  Immediately  he  felt  a 
grabbing  at  the  base  of  his  skull;  then  a w'arm,  almost 
liquid  sensation  spread  down  his  spine,  relaxing  him 
and  w’ashing  away  his  fatigue.  He  took  another  deep 
breath  and  dug  through  his  pack,  finding  a small  blue 
journal  and  pen. 

LA-Couver  Zone:  June  .5,  20Jt.9. 

I begin  this  journal  today  because  something 
strange  is  happening  to  my  color.  I was  assigned  in- 
digo on  January  19,  2027.  Recently  the  indigo  has 
begun  to  change.  It  is  fading! 

For  some  time  I have  suspected  the  change,  but 
only  last  week  discovered  a way  to  check.  I cut  a lock 
of  my  hair  for  a standard  and  each  day  I compare  it 
to  a new  hair-snip.  The  mdigo  color  is  slowly  fadbig 
each  day.  The  change  just  noticeable. 

So  I will  keep  this  log  to  record  the  progress  of 
this  strange  color  transition. 

Twenty-two  years  wandering.  Never  closer 
than  a kilometer— as  the  law  proscribes  — to  any  of 
the  regional  urban  domes;  but  I have  visited  the  un- 
domed villages  of  the  Seaboard,  the  Gulf  Zone,  and 
the  LA-Couver  Area.  And  even  once,  long  ago,  I 
traversed  the  great  heartland  of  the'country,  walking 
ten,  eleven,  twelve  days  between  hostels.  I saw  the 
floating  fishing  villages  on  the  Great  Lakes.  But  the 
interior  is  for  the  young.  Now  I must  find  a hostel 
each  night,  to  eat  and  rest. 

Never,  during  this  wandering,  have  1 heard  of 
anyone  losing  their  color.  Perhaps  my  experience  is 
unique? 

It  has  occurred  to  me  that  I may  be  sick.  Years 
ago  I was  sick  and  saw  strange  things.  I had  been 
wandering  the  Southeast,  near  the  old  rocket  depar- 
ture sites,  and  developed  a fever  and  congestion  in 
yny  lungs  — viral  pneumonia.  As  the  law  alloivs  dur- 
ing illness,  I stayed  more  than  one  night  in  the  local 
hostel.  But  the  severity  of  the  illness  required  that  I 
be  moved  to  the  regional  medcenter,  where  I re- 
mained for  several  weeks.  I hallucinated,  forgetting 
my  color,  even  believhig  that  I was  a freeman. 

I don’t  think  I’m  sick  this  time. 

As  I walk  each  day,  I have  considered  a num- 
ber of  possible  explanations.  One  recurs.  It  makes 
my  heart  race,  my  throat  tighten.  At  this  very  mo- 
ment, my  hand  shakes  at  the  thought.  The  theory:  I 
am  getting  better,  perhaps  cured!  Is  it  possible? 
Could  I once  again  be  rid  of  the  color?  Able  to  stay  in 
one  place  — to  work,  to  play,  to  read — to  be  a living 


41 


“I  said  get  up,  colored 
man,”  the  towhead 
repeated.  He  motioned 
threateningly  with  the 
rifle,  a .22  automatic. 
“Get  your  hands  behind 
your  head.” 


part  of  that  place?  To  once  again  be  free?  Is  this  pos- 
sible? I do  not  know.  It  seems  a dream. 

I am  lonely  and  need  someone  to  talk  with. 

Directly  overhead,  the  sun  was  a fireball,  the 
air  heavy  and  hot;  heat  waves  shimmered  off 
the  road’s  pavement.  Only  a Cooper’s  hawk 
defied  the  summer  heat,  circling  over  the  fields  of 
freshly  mown  and  wind-rowed  alfalfa.  Feeling  dizzy, 
the  indigo  man  rested  under  a giant  eucalyptus,  the 
tree  towering  over  the  shoulder  of  the  road,  shedding 
strips  of  sandy  outer  bark^  exposing  its  blanched 
trunk.  Out  of  breath,  he  inhaled  deeply  and  felt  re- 
vived slightly  by  the  pungent,  medicinal  odor  of  the 
tree.  Nearby  he  heard  a dog  bark.  Too  hot  to  chase 
rabbits,  he  thought,  closing  his  eyes. 

“Okay,  colored  man,  up!” 

Flinching  at  the  unexpected  sound,  the  indigo 
man  snapped  open  his  eyes.  He  stared  into  the  bore 
of  a rifle.  Sighting  dowm  the  barrel  of  the  gun  was  a 
towheaded  youngster  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  with  cold, 
blanched-blue  eyes.  Beside  him  stood  another  boy, 
grinning  an  empty  smile  and  holding  a huge  black 
dog.  The  boy’s  grin  exposed  two  missing  front  teeth. 
The  dog  grow’led  menacingly. 

Swallowing,  the  indigo  man  tried  to  work  up 
saliva  in  his  dry  mouth. 

“Hush  up.  Midnight,”  the  boy  holding  the  dog 
said,  giving  the  animal  a vicious  jerk  on  its  collar.  His 
speech  was  slow,  the  words  slurred. 

“I  said  get  up,  colored  man,”  the  towhead  re- 
peated; his  words  w'ere  cold  and  precise.  He  mo- 
tioned threateningly  with  the  rifle,  a .22  automatic. 
Stiffly,  the  indigo  man  stood  up. 

“Get  your  hands  behind  your  head,”  the 
towhead  ordered,  snapping  off  the  words.  “Ain’t  he  a 
prize,  Jeff?” 

Jeff  giggled. 

The  indigo  man  eyed  the  dog,  which  drooled 
saliva  and  continued  to  strain  against  its  collar. 

“Dirty  c-c-colored  man,”  Jeff  said,  and  shud- 
dered. Blushing,  he  glanced  at  his  friend,  then  spat 
on  the  ground.  The  indigo  man  had  heard  the  derisive 
term  many  times.  “W-what’re  you  going  to  do  with 
him,  Tyler?”  Jeff  stared  at  the  boy  holding  the  gun, 
eyebrows  raised. 

For  the  first  time,  a wry  grin  broke  at  the 
corners  of  Tyler’s  mouth.  But  his  eyes  remained  cold. 


not  matching  the  smile.  “Well  now,  that  depends,”  he 
said,  jacking  a round  into  the  chamber  of  the  .22.  The 
indigo  man’s  stomach  churned,  but  he  didn’t  move. 
“Think  I’ll  shoot  him”— the  boy  sighted  down  the 
rifle  again,  pointing  it  at  the  indigo  man’s  heart  — 
“unless  . . . unless  he  cooperates.” 

Midnight  whined. 

“Don’t  shoot  him,  Tyler,”  Jeff  pleaded,  his 
voice  rising  in  pitch.  “H-h-he’ll  cooperate.”  He  turned 
to  the  indigo  man,  nodding.  “Won’t  you?” 

Tyler  flashed  Jeff  a reassuring  smile.  “You 
know.  I’ve  always  wondered  if  these  guys  were 
painted  all  over  . . .” 

Jeff  frowned,  struggling  to  understand  his 

friend. 

The  indigo  man  understood,  and  his  heart 

raced. 

Tyler’s  grin  dissolved  into  a scowl.  He  fingered 
his  own  shirt.  “Under  his  clothes,  dummy,”  he  said 
impatiently. 

Slowly  the  wrinkles  disappeared  from  Jeffs 
forehead  as  he  caught  on.  “Oh  . . . Me,  too.” 

“Strip”  Tyler  whispered  at  the  indigo  man. 

He  took  off  his  clothes,  watching  the  rifle 
carefully. 

The  dog  lunged,  barking  at  the  indigo  man’s 
movement. 

“Come  on,  come  on,  hurry  up,”  Tyler  ordered, 
“we  got  to  get  home  for  lunch  soon.” 

The  boys  both  giggled  as  the  indigo  man 
stripped  off  his  shorts.  He  stood  up,  naked.  The  boys 
laughed  hard,  tears  rolling  down  their  cheeks.  The 
dog  howled,  joining  in. 

Catching  his  breath,  Tyler  said:  “Now  that’s 
what  I call  a prize,  a real  prize.”  He  wiped  his  eyes. 
“Turn  around,  colored  man.”  The  laughter  grew 
louder,  but  it  was  forced. 

The  indigo  man  felt  sweat  roll  down  his  ribs. 
He  could  barely  breathe. 

“Now'  that’s  really  a cold,  blue  ass.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  it,  Jeff?  Bend  over!” 

The  indigo  man  heard  a strange  sound  — a 
growling  groan.  He  knew  it  wasn’t  the  dog.  Before 
he  turned,  he  realized  that  the  sound  had  come  from 
Jeff.  Cautiously  turning,  he  saw  Tyler  kneeling  over 
his  prostrate  friend.  Jeff  moaned.  His  face  was  red, 
neck  muscles  knotted,  his  limbs  and  body  stiff— 
convulsed  by  seizure.  The  indigo  man  took  one  step 
toward  the  boys. 

Looking  back  over  his  shoulder,  Tyler  shouted, 
“Hold  it!”  He  picked  up  the  rifle  and  made  a shooing 
gesture  at  the  indigo  man.  “Get!  Move  it,  old  man.” 
He  fired  a round  near  the  indigo  man’s  feet.  “Now!” 
the  boy  screamed,  and  his  eyes  were  murderous. 

Sweeping  up  his  clothes,  pack,  and  stick,  the 
indigo  man  stumbled  across  the  loose  shoulder  of  the 
highway,  hurrying  down  the  road. 


42 


empty  highway  ami  stopped  to  dress.  But  he  was 
shaking  too  hard.  Finally  his  breathing  slowed  and 
his  shivering  stopped.  He  dressed.  His  fear  dis- 
solved, replaced  by  relief.  Exhausted,  he  massaged 
the  numb  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  For  a moment,  he 
thought  of  Jeff,  but  felt  no  compassion. 

LA-Couver  Zone:  June  6,  20^9 

The  color  continues  to  fade. 

Today  I had  a terrifying  experience  with  two 
freemen  boys.  I should  have  been  outraged, 
humiliated,  shamed.  But  I felt  none  of  these  emo- 
tions. At  the  time  I was  simply  afraid.  When  it  was 
over  and  I was  safe,  I was  overwhelmed  with  relief. 
Nothing  else.  I have  forgotten  how  to  feel  anger, 
pride— the  others.  Perhaps  they  are  luxuries  of 
freemen. 

One  of  the  boys  I met  today  u/ill  wear  color 
soon.  From  his  eyes,  I would  guess  he  will  be  as- 
signed scarlet. 

I am  tired.  Very,  very  tired. 

Again  this  hostel  is  empty.  No  one  to  talk  to. 

The  next  day  the  indigo  man  stopped  early  to 
get  out  of  the  heat.  The  hostel  was  a Quonset 
hut.  He  palmed  the  sensor  and  waited. 

Whirr.  Click. 

Pushing  the  metal  door  inward,  the  indigo  man 
entered  the  hostel  and  stopped.  A man,  eating  at  the 
dining  table,  looked  up.  Even  seated,  his  size  was  im- 
pressive—a giant.  He  was  beardless,  in  his  forties, 
and  the  color  of  bright,  fresh  blood:  scarlet.  The  scar- 
let man  nodded  shyly  and  shifted  his  gaze  back  to  his 
food. 

“Hello,”  the  indigo  man  said,  acknowledging 
the  giant’s  silent  greeting.  He  placed  his  pack  and 
stick  by  the  table,  glancing  about  the  hut.  An  air 
conditioner  filled  the  air  with  a low  hum.  He  wiped 
his  sweaty  head  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and 
sniffed.  “The  stew  smells  good.” 

Smiling,  the  scarlet  man  spooned  up  another 
steamy  mouthful.  He  nodded  toward  the  bank  of  ma- 


chines behind  the  indigo  man,  next  to  the  door. 

As  was  customary,  they  ate  in  silence. 

Finished,  the  two  men  talked— tentatively,  at 
first,  like  shy  children. 

“Hot.”  The  indigo  man  gestured  to  the  door 
and  outside. 

“Yes,”  the  giant  said,  nodding  slowly. 

“You’re  the  first  person  I’ve  talked  to  in  sev- 
eral weeks.” 

“H-m-m.” 

“In  fact,  you’re  the  first  C-P  I’ve  seen  in  that 

time.” 

The  scarlet  man’s  brow  wrinkled  slightly.  He 
nodded.  “It’s  a lonely  time.”  His  voice  was  gentle  and 
soft,  at  odds  with  his  huge  frame  and  violent  color. 

“Have  you  wandered  long?”  asked  the  indigo 

man. 

“Yes.  Ten  years  . . .”  He  stared  into  his  ale 
mug.  Raising  his  head,  he  asked:  “And  yourself?” 

“Longer.  Twenty-two  years.” 

After  reflecting  for  a moment,  the  scarlet  man 
said:  “Three  days  ago  I met  an  amber  woman—” 

“Excuse  me,”  the  indigo  man  interrupted. 
“Amber?  I am  not  familiar  with  the  offense.” 

“Oh,  amber,”  the  scarlet  man  murmured,  “yes 
...  it  is  a new  one.  I don’t  think  it  is  major  like  the 
darker  colors,  but  I don’t  know  exactly.” 

For  a minute  neither  man  spoke,  both  sipping 
their  remaining  ale. 

Presently  the  scarlet  man  cleared  his  throat. 
“The  lack  of  C-Ps  reminded  me  of  the  amber  woman. 
She’d  been  recently  assigned  the  color,  and  her  mind 
was  full  of  philosophy  about  the  law  and  such.”  The 
giant  paused,  watching  the  indigo  man’s  face  for  en- 
couragement to  continue. 

Smiling  wryly,  the  indigo  man  tried  to  re- 
member his  thoughts  after  being  assigned  indigo.  He 
couldn’t  recall  specifically,  but  he  doubted  they  were 
philosophical.  “Continue,  please.  You  were  saying 
the  amber  woman  discussed  thoughts  about  legal 
philosophy?” 

“Well,  I don’t  remember  it  all,  and  some  I 
didn’t  understand.  But  I recall  the  gist  of  it.  She 
mentioned  a long-term  research  project  — social  biol- 
ogy? Anyhow,  she  said  the  judgments  of  color  were 
having  a deterrent  effect  on  social  offenses.  The  re- 
sult is  that  there  are  less  and  less  C-Ps,  especially 
major  offenders  like  you  and  I.” 

The  indigo  man  nodded;  he  had  suspected 
something  like  that  was  happening.  Probably  been 
working  from  the  start,  gradually  reducing  the 
number  of  offends. 

“Smoke?”  the  scarlet  man  asked,  rising  to  his 
full  height,  over  two  meters. 

“Yes.”  The  indigo  man  accompanied  the  giant 
to  the  machines  near  the  door.  In  turn  they  each 
palmed  the  sensor  on  the  Shadowsmok  dispenser.  Re- 


43 


turning  to  their  seats,  both  men  were  silent;  they 
broke  the  ampules,  sniffing  the  blue  smoke.  Since  he 
was  already  tired,  the  narcotic  made  the  indigo  man 
feel  limp,  completely  worn  out.  But  he  couldn’t  go  to 
bed  yet.  He  still  hadn’t  brought  up  the  color  loss.  Try 
as  he  might,  he  could  think  of  no  easy  way  to  open 
the  conversation.  The  scarlet  man  was  difficult  to 
talk  with. 

Finally  he  blurted  out,  “Have  you  ever  met  a 
C-P  who  was  losing  his  color?” 

Raising  his  eyebrows,  the  giant  mumbled,  “I’m 
not  sure  what  you  mean.” 

“I’ll  show  you.”  Reaching  into  his  pack,  the  in- 
digo man  withdrew  the  lock  of  hair  and  a tiny  pair  of 
scissors.  He  clipped  off  a snip  from  his  head  and  laid 
the  two  on  the  table  side  by  side.  “Which  is  darker?” 
he  asked,  gesturing  at  the  two  tufts  of  hair. 

Studying  the  samples,  the  scarlet  man  said, 
“I-I-I’m  not  certain.”  He  looked  qiiestioningly  into  the 
indigo  man’s  eyes. 

“I  think  my  color  is  fading,”  the  indigo  man  ex- 
plained. * 

The  scarlet  man  shook  his  head,  confused. 

“Well,”  the  indigo  man  continued,  unable  to 
keep  the  excitement  down  in  his  rising  voice,  “several 
weeks  ago,  I noticed  a change  in  my  color.  A fading! 
So  I cut  this  sample  as  a standard  for  comparison—” 
He  pointed  to  the  older  clipping,  “—and  I check  each 
day.  I’ve  never  heard  of  anyone  losing  their  color  . . . 
but  I am.”  Again  he  indicated  the  proof  on  the  table. 
“Have  you  heard  of  it  happening?” 

Shaking  his  head,  the  giant  leaned  over  and 
examined  the  two  locks  of  hair  very  closely.  He 
looked  back  at  the  indigo  man.  “No.  No,  I’ve  never 
heard  of  anyone’s  color  changing.”  Gently  he  rested  a 
large  hand  on  the  indigo  man’s  shoulder.  “But  you  are 
probably  right,”  he  said,  his  voice  louder.  “Fm  not  a 
good  judge,  but  I think  I see  the  color  difference.”  He 
shifted  his  gaze  to  the  empty  mug. 

The  indigo  man  smiled  at  the  obvious  lie.  A 
kind  man,  he  thought,  difficult  to  imagine  him 
harming  anyone  seriously.  Then  he  looked  at  the  two 
locks  and  frowned.  He  put  the  darker  lock  back  in  his 
pack. 

“Strange,”  the  scarlet  man  said  softly,  “in  all 
the  years.  I’ve  never  even  thought  of  the  possibility. 
Why,  the  significance — ” 

“Freedom!”  The  indigo  man  wiped  his  sweaty 
palms  on  his  pants.  His  heart  thumped  rapidly;  he 
had  trouble  catching  his  breath. 

With  a slightly  awed  expression,  the  scarlet 
man  asked:  “But  what  could  cause  it?  A problem  with 
the  coloring  implant?” 

“No,  I don’t  think  so.”  He  had  calmed  himself. 
“A  malfunction  in  the  implant  would  be  picked  up  by 
one  of  the  palm  sensors  in  a door  or  food  machine  and 
conveyed  back  to  Central  Control.  By  now.  I’d  have 


been  visited  by  a Caretaker.  No,  that’s  not  the 
cause.” 

“Well,  for  God’s  sake,  what—?” 

“I  think  I’m  cured  ...  or  almost.” 

LA-Couver  Zone:  June  7,  204.9. 

Today  I met  a scarlet  man  . . . 

Again,  blistering  heat.  I’he  indigo  man  was 
soaked  with  sweat,  exhausted  before  noon. 
He  left  the  highway,  stumbling  down  a slope 
over  the  road  shoulder.  He  listened,  hearing  water 
splashing  over  rocks.  Then  he  caught  the  reflections 
of  the  creek  flowing  through  the  mottled  shadowing 
of  large  black  oaks.  He  moved,  attracted  by  the  cool 
shade  of  the  trees  and  the  sound  of  the  brook.  Sud- 
denly he  stopped,  a gasp  frozen  in  his  throat. 

A freeman  child. 

Highlighted  by  a shaft  of  sunlight,  the  young 
boy  sat  on  a rock  outcrop,  flipping  tiny  wads  of  dough 
into  the  water,  watching  trout  strike  the  bread  balls. 
But  it  was  the  boy’s  appearance  that  had  stolen  the 
indigo  man’s  breath. 

The  child’s  head  was  covered  by  an  unruly 
mass  of  blond  ringlets;  the  light  playing  through  the 
hair  made  it  fuzzy-white  like  a dandelion  puffball.  His 
cheeks  were  flushed  by  the  heat  and  excitement  of 
his  play,  the  pink  contrasting  sharply  with  his  fair 
skin. 

The  stillness  was  disturbed  by  the  boy’s  laugh 
as  a fish  leaped  from  the  water,  splashing  back  into 
the  brook.  The  lad’s  dark  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  joy. 
His  dress  was  typical  for  the  area:  brown  leather 
shorts  held  up  by  crossed  shoulder  straps.  No  shirt, 
no  shoes.  His  body,  chubby  with  baby  fat,  was  fair, 
slightly  tanned— the  color  of  a walnut  shell.  But  it 
was  the  boy’s  arms  and  hands  that  caught  the  indigo 
man’s  attention.  They  seemed  to  be  in  perpetual  mo- 
tion: tossing,  scratching,  clapping,  rubbing  pants, 
fingers  shaking  with  glee.  And  the  arms  were  cov- 
ered with  downy  hair  that  glittered  golden  in  the  sun- 
light. 

The  beautiful  child  reminded  the  indigo  man  of 
an  old-fashioned  religious  postcard  that  he  had  seen, 
except  that  the  boy  lacked  a halo.  As  he  spied  on  the 
lad,  his  exhaustion  drained  away,  replaced  by  a tin- 
gling excitement. 

The  boy  laughed  again.  A melodious  sound. 

He  had  used  up  the  bread,  but  the  fish  still 
struck  at  tiny  pebbles  that  he  tossed  into  the  water. 

Carefully  the  indigo  man  moved  closer,  afraid 
of  disturbing  the  beauty  of  the  scene  but  nevertheless 
drawn  closer  to  the  child. 

The  boy’s  arms  stopped  throwing  and  rested  in 
his  lap;  he  cocked  his  head,  listening.  Pausing  within 
arm’s  reach,  the  indigo  man  stared  down  on  the  dan- 
delion fuzz.  A vein  throbbed  in  his  throat. 


The  woman  looked 
down  on  the  indigo 
man.  From  the 
gentleness  of  motherly 
concern,  her  features 
hardened  into  a mask  of 
rage  and  disgust. 
“You  . . . you  dirty,  dirty 
old—”  She  stopped,  her 
face  deepening  in  color, 
“—pervert!” 


The  boy  faced  toward  the  indigo  man,  blinded 
by  the  sun  but  sensing  a presence.  He  smiled. 
“Mama-?” 

Kneeling,  the  indigo  man  reached  out  slowly 
and  stroked  the  fine  golden  hair  on  the  boy’s  arm.  His 
throat  tightened,  preventing  a moan  of  delight.  So 
soft,  he  thought.  The  child’s  fresh,  babylike  scent  was 
overpowering.  The  indigo  man  was  dizzy.  Then  he 
felt  the  lad  stiffen  under  his  stroking. 

Jerking  away,  the  boy  tumbled  backward  into 
the  shade.  He  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  indigo 
man,  and  his  eyes  widened  with  terror.  “Ah,  ah, 
ah-” 

Alarmed,  the  indigo  man  raised  his  hands  in  a 
surrendering  gesture.  His  heart  jumped  erratically 
in  his  chest.  He  swallowed,  trying  to  relieve  the 
tightness  in  his  throat. 

Beyond  reassurance,  the  child  cried  hoarsely, 
“C-c-colored,  colored  . . .”  He  made  choking  sounds, 
finally  bursting  into  sobs  of  panic.  “Mama,  Mama!”  he 
screamed,  edging  away. 

The  indigo  man  stood  frozen,  trying  to  calm 
the  hysterical  child  with  the  right  gesture,  putting 
his  forefinger  to  his  lips.  Nothing  worked. 

Suddenly:  “Davy  boy!  Oh,  Davy  boy!  Run! 
Run!  Davy!”  The  v/oman  stood  on  the  slope  of  the 
shoulder,  screaming  at  the  lad.  “Come  here,  Davy!” 

He  scrambled  up  the  slope,  blubbering, 
“Mama,  Mama.” 

She  swooped  him  up  and  smothered  him  to  her 
chest.  “It’s  okay,  baby.  You’re  safe.”  Her  voice  was 
soft,  a coo. 

After  a few  moments,  the  boy’s  sobs  quieted 

down. 

The  woman  looked  down  on  the  indigo  man. 


From  the  gentleness  of  motherly  concern,  her  fea- 
tures hardened  into  a mask  of  rage  and  disgust.  She 
tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  out;  she  only 
spewed  white  flecks  of  dry  spittle.  Finally  she  man- 
aged: “You  . . . you  dirty,  dirty  old—”  She  stopped, 
her  face  deepening  in  color.  “ — pervert!”  Coughing 
violently,  she  strangled  on  the  force  and  effort  of  her 
exclamation.  Setting  the  boy  down,  she  stammered, 
“You,  you—” 

The  indigo  man  shook  his  head  emphatically. 
“No,  no.  I meant  no  harm  to  the  boy.” 

Eyes  widening  with  surprise,  the  woman 
shouted,  “You  dare  break  silence?”  Her  fists  balled. 
“I  should  have  you  shot!”  Instead,  she  reached  down 
and  gathered  a handful  of  stones.  The  boy  imitated 
his  mother.  The  two  showered  the  indigo  man  with 
pebbles. 

At  first,  he  shielded  his  face  with  his  arms. 

No,  he  thought,  I couldn't  harm  the  boy.  I'm 
well.  But  deep  in  his  chest  he  felt  a twinge  of  uncer- 
tainty. He  shook  his  head,  denying  the  feeling.  No, 
no  it  was  only  the  child's  beauty.  I meant  no  harm 
. . . But  he  wasn’t  sure.  And  he  was  swept  by  a feel- 
ing of  guilt. 

His  arms  dropped,  suddenly  heavy  with  his 
uncertainty. 

Only  a few  stones  actually  struck  his  face,  and 
they  seemed  no  more  significant  than  raindrops. 

“Take  that,  you  t^rible,  terrible—” 

“Colored  man!”  the  boy  added  hatefully. 

He  could  feel  a trickle  of  blood  running  down 
his  forehead;  but  still  he  stood  unmoving,  rooted  to 
the  spot. 

Breathless,  the  woman  finally  stopped  throw- 
ing stones.  She  stomped  the  ground,  then  led  the  lit- 
tle boy  up  the  slope  and  out  of  sight. 

The  indigo  man  stood  still,  a heavy  feeling  in 
his  chest. 

Time  passed. 

Eventually  he  slumped,  dropping  to  the 
ground  where  he’d  stood  during  the  stoning.  The  sun 
crept  overhead;  then  it  dropped.  A cricket  chirped, 
answered  by  the  croak  of  a bullfrog. 

Dazed,  the  indigo  man  touched  the  cuts  on  his 
face  and  forehead,  the  aching  dried  crusts.  He  felt 
weary.  Taking  off  his  pack,  he  lay  down  and  curled 
into  a ball.  His  dream  was  troubled:  He  was  a boy 
again,  chased  by  a naked  man  covered  with  smears  of 
color— a rainbow  man.  He  ran  and  ran,  finally  drop- 
ping exhausted  in  a field  of  flowers.  He  sank  down  in 
the  reds,  blues,  yellows,  and  oranges,  smothered  by 
color.  He  couldn’^atch  his  breath  . . . 

Off  and  on  during  the  night,  pains  in  his  left 
arm  woke  the  indigo  man. 

LA-Couver  Zone:  June  9,  20^9. 

There  is  no  entry  for  yesterday.  I slept  in  the 


45 


woods.  My  joints  are  stiff  and  sore,  but  my  thoughts 
more  painful.  A few  minutes  ago  I made  a compari- 
son of  hair  to  the  old  standard.  I think  the  fresh  lock 
is  lighter,  but  I am  not  positive. 

If  the  color  is  fading,  my  theory  really  does 
not  explain  it.  Why  should  my  being  cured  have  any 
influence  on  the  coloring  implant?  I cannot  re- 
member my  original  reasoning.  1 can  only  recall  ex- 
citement at  the  idea  — but  the  scientific  basis? 
Perhaps  it  was  nothing  more  than  wishful  thinking. 

I am  not  sure  that  the  compulsive  urge  that  led 
to  my  assignment  of  indigo  is  gone. 

So  in  the  future  I will  make  careful,  honest 
comparisons  of  the  hair  samples.  And  I will  reexam- 
ine my  heart  for  traces  of  the  evil  urge.  Perhaps,  if  I 
find  that  my  color  is  really  changing,  I will  meet 
other  C-Ps  who  can  suggest  realistic  explanations  for 
the  loss. 

But  I am  changing  in  some  ways.  Age  is  sap- 
ping my  stamina  and  something  is  wrong  with  my 
hand  and  arm  — circulation  or  something?  I am 
afraid  to  go  to  the  medcenter.^ 

Nausea.  Dizziness.  Headache.  Pins  and  needles 
in  his  left  arm.  He  had  awakened  sick.  After 
a few  minutes  on  the  road,  he  sat  down  on 
the  curb  of  the  median  to  rest,  to  catch  his  breath. 
Staring  up  the  highway,  he  saw  the  air  dance  and 
shimmer;  but  it’s  too  early  for  heat  ivaves,  he 
thought.  He  blinked,  but  his  vision  remained  blurry. 
He  tried  to  rub  feeling  into  his  dead  arm  — 

Suddenly  a tremendous  pain  slammed  into  his 
chest,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  with  a sledgehammer. 
He  straightened  up,  stunned,  paralyzed  by  the  pain; 
then  he  gasped  and  vomited  violently.  The  pain  had 
changed  to  a sharp  stabbing  sensation,  each  thrust 
taking  away  his  breath.  In  agony,  he  rolled  over  and 
inched  himself  under  the  shade  of  an  oleander.  He  lay 
on  his  back,  gasping  for  air.  Again  the  invisible 
sledgehammer  slammed  into  his  chest.  His  vision 
tunneled,  his  ears  rang,  and  a numbness  crept  over 
him. 

Blackness. 

Coolness. 

A flicking  coolness  across  his  face. 

It  was  a good  feeling,  drawing  his  attention 
from  the  dull  ache  in  his  chest.  With  great  effort  he 
forced  open  his  eyes.  The  brightness  brought  another 
wave  of  nausea  that  made  him  moan.  Everything  was 
fuzzy.  He  blinked,  trying  to  clear  his  vision.  A man 
leaned  over  him. 

“Wh-?” 

He  gagged,  his  throat  raw  and  vile  with  the 
taste  of  his  own  juices;  he  coughed,  closing  his  eyes, 
fighting  the  dizziness  and  nausea.  Again  he  felt  the 
cooling  sensation  across  his  brow.  He  reopened  his 
eyes,  but  didn’t  try  to  talk. 

The  man  was  naked. 


His  body  was  covered  only  with  smears  and 
dabs  of  color.  All  over.  His  hair,  even  his  eyes  were 
flecked  with  multicolor.  The  indigo  man  shuddered 
with  the  recognition.  It  was  the  rainbow  man!  The 
man  in  his  dream! 

Breathing  deeply  in  and  out,  the  indigo  man 
felt  better.  He  looked  more  closely  at  the  rainbow 
man.  He  wasn’t  completely  nude;  around  his  waist  he 
wore  a wide  leather  belt.  Hooked  to  the  belt  were 
many  brushes  of  different  sizes  and  shapes— artists’ 
brushes. 

Brush  in  hand,  the  painter  dabbed  at  the  in- 
digo man’s  face.  The  flicking  coolness.  He  brought 
the  brush  back  and  wiped  a smear  of  indigo  on  his 
chest.  Each  time  the  painter  dabbed  with  the  cooling 
brush,  he  wiped  it  off  somewhere  on  his  body,  leaving 
a fresh  streak  of  indigo. 

Am  I dead?  the  indigo  man  wondered. 

The  pain  in  his  chest  reminded  him  that  he 
was  still  alive. 

Hand  and  brush  a blur,  the  painter  worked  on 
the  indigo  man’s  face.  Dab,  dab,  dab.  Then  he  stroked 
the  indigo  man’s  arms.  And  everywhere  he  touched, 
the  painter  wiped  away  a patch  of  indigo. 

Finally  the  rainbow  man  stopped. 

He  stared  for  a moment,  admiring  his  work; 
then  he  bent  down  again  and  gently  flicked  the  indigo 
man’s  nose.  The  touch  was  cool,  almost  icy.  The 
painter  nodded  and  grinned,  his  flecked  eyes  glitter- 
ing like  a kaleidoscope. 

The  indigo  man  clutched  his  chest  with  his 
right  hand  as  his  heart  beat  erratically,  each  thump 
sending  a wave  of  new  pain.  He’d  never  felt  so  tired. 
It  was  an  effort  to  breathe.  He  closed  his  eyes. 

Then  it  occurred  to  the  indigo  man  that  the 
painter  was  only  a fantasy,  that  he  was  really  lying 
on  the  median  all  alone,  hallucinating.  A dream.  In- 
wardly he  smiled;  it  didn’t  really  matter.  He’d  been 
alone  for  the  last  twenty-two  years. 

With  an  effort,  he  opened  his  eyes,  focusing 
again  on  the  rainbow  man.  The  painter  reached  to  the 
back  of  his  belt  and  held  up  an  object. 

The  indigo  man  blinked.  It  was  a mirror. 

He  squeezed  his  eyelids  together  tightly,  clear- 
ing his  vision,  and  stared  into  the  mirror.  He  saw  a 
stranger,  a man.  An  old  man  with  hair  whiter  than 
the  cleanest  cloud,  with  a beard  the  color  of  fresh- 
fallen  snow,  with  thick,  cottony  eyebrows.  Nowhere 
on  the  old  man’s  freshly  scrubbed  face  was  there  even 
a speck  of  color. 

The  indigo  man  watched  as  a tiny  tear  trickled 
down  the  old  man’s  cheek. 

Heavy  now,  the  indigo  man’s  eyelids  sagged. 
He  forced  them  open. 

The  rainbow  man  had  disappeared. 

He  looked  up  into  the  sky  at  the  fleecy  white 
clouds  and  smiled.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  rest- 
ed, relieved  of  his  burden  at  last.  IQ 


46 


Illustration  by  Robert  Morello 


Imagine,  if  you  will . . . 

The  white  mis  ts  roll  in  like  solid  things  and  bump 
gently  against  the  tropic  coasts.  The  heavy  gulf  waters 
suck  at  the  planking  of  a small  launch  that  lies  at 
anchor  near  the  shore. 

Doc  Howard  squints  anxiously  toward  the  land 
and  wipes  his  sweaty  palms  on  his  dirty  dungarees 
before  taking  a quick  pull  at  a pint  whiskey  bottle. 

“Come  on,”  he  mutters.  “What’s  keeping  you?” 

Doc  is  a thin  wisp  of  a man  with  a gray  complex- 


ion and  the  shaking  hands  of  a chronic  drunk.  Life 
hasn’t  been  good  to  him;  it  has  eaten  away  at  his 
confidence  and  dignity  until  only  the  shell  of  the  man  is 
left. 

There  is  a. -610111  squawk,  and  Doc  starts  up.  His 
eyes  swivel  wildly  to  the  small  cage  that  hangs  from 
the  superstructure  near  the  entrance  to  the  cabin.  In 
the  cage  sits  a brightly  colored  parrot.  Seeing  the 
source  of  the  sound.  Doc  lets  out  his  pent-up  breath. 
The  parrot  claws  at  the  cage  and  clucks  noisily. 


47 


A1  screams  as  the 
moving  chain  catches 
him  and  slams  him 
against  the  gunwale.  He 
writhes  from  side  to  side. 
“My  hand!  It  hurts!” 

“You  haven’t  got  a hand 
anymore,  Al.  The  chain 
took  it  off.” 


“Water  alive  with  police  cutters,  and  Al  ashore 
with  a load  of  guns,  and  me  stuck  here  with  you,” 
mutters  Doc.  “What  do  I know  about  boats  and  run- 
ning guns?” 

The  parrot  screams  shrilly,  and  Doc  wipes  at  his 
damp  forehead  with  his  sleeve.  “Come  on,  Al.  Come 
<m!’’ 

Suddenly  he  stiffens.  There  is  a sound  of  distant 
rifle  fire  and  a crashing  in  the  brush  near  the  moored 
boat.  Doc  leans  over  the  sid^.  “Al?”  His  voice  is  a 
hoarse  whisper.  “Al?  That  you?” 

Legs  chum  water;  there  is  a thump  against  the 
side  of  the  boat.  Assisted  by  Doc,  Al  Lucho,  small-time 
hoodlum,  climbs  noisily  over  the  rail  onto  the  deck. 

“Get  that  anchor  up!”  he  commands  sharply. 
“I’ll  start  the  engine.  Move!” 

Doc  casts  him  a frightened  look  and  leaps  for  the 
anchor  chain.  With  the  aid  of  a small  winch  he  begins 
to  pull  anchor.  The  chain  piles  up  on  the  deck  as  the 
anchor  rises. 

The  engine  bursts  to  life,  and  the  launch  begins 
to  pull  away  from  the  shore.  Over  the  sounds  of  the 
engine  echo  several  rifle  shots;  small,  ugly  holes 
appear  in  the  side  of  the  boat  above  the  water  line. 

The  parrot  squawks  loudly  as  the  rifle  fire  grows 
distant. 

The  craft  safely  under  way,  their  pursuers  left 
behind,  Al  locks  the  wheel  in  position  and  comes  on 
deck.  He  sees  the  parrot  in  its  cage,  and  a wide  smile 
breaks  over  his  pinched  face.  He  chuckles.  “What’s  the 
matter,  Conchita?  Things  get  too  rough  for  you?”  He 
sticks  his  finger  through  the  wire  bars  of  the  cage  and 
strokes  the  parrot’s  head.  It  slashes  at  his  finger.  He 
jerks  his  hand  back  and  puts  the  injured  finger  in  his 
mouth. 

Doc  joins  him.  “One  of  these  days  that  bird  is 
going  to  t^e  that  finger  off  you.  Ever  hear  of  parrot 
fever?” 

Al  spins  to  face  him,  his  face  ugly.  “She’s  my 
bird,  ain’t  she?” 

Doc  becomes  conciliatory.  “Sure,  Al.  Sure.” 

“I  want  to  let  her  bite  me,  it’s  my  business.  I 
been  bit  before,  and  it  always  healed  fast  enough.” 

As  Doc  turns  away,  Al  reaches  out  and  grabs 
him.  He  looks  at  Doc’s  trembling  hands,  then  leans  for- 
ward suspiciously  and  sniffs  Doc’s  breath. 


“Now  Al.  . .” 

“You  been  at  the  bottle  again!” 

“It  was  just  a little  one,  Al.” 

“I  risk  my  neck  leaving  you  here  to  cover  for  me, 
and  you  hit  the  bottle  the  minute  I’m  out  of  sight.”  He 
cuffs  Doc  roughly  and  shoves  him  against  the  rail. 
“Where’s  the  bottle?” 

“Please,  Al.  . .” 

He  twists  Doc’s  arm.  “Come  on,  rumdum. 
Where?” 

Doc  cries  out  in  pain  and  gestures  toward  a pile 
of  rope.  Al  shoves  him  aside,  finds  the  bottle,  and 
raises  his  arm  to  throw  it  over  the  side. 

Doc  is  abject.  “Please,  Al.  You  know  how  I get 
when  I need  a drink ...” 

Al  looks  at  him  contemptuously.  “Suffer!”  he 
says  harshly.  He  flings  the  bottle  into  the  mist.  Ignor- 
ing Doc,  who  clings  weakly  to  the  rail,  he  goes  to  the 
parrot’s  cage.  “See  what  I’m  saddled  with,  Conchita? 
A human  sponge.  He  smells  the  cork  of  a bottle  and  he 
comes  apart.  I’m  lucky  the  boat  was  waiting  at  all.” 

Talking  to  the  parrot  setjms  to  cheer  him 
somewhat.  He  grins  a gargoyle  grin  and  begins  to  play 
with  the  bird.  He  purses  his  lips  and  makes  cooing, 
clucking  sounds.  Carefully  he  pets  the  brightly  colored 
head  and  is  delighted  when  the  bird  suffers  his 
attentions. 

Doc  raises  his  head.  “Al?”  he  says  softly. 

“Yeah?  What  do  you  want?” 

Doc’s  voice  has  a slight  whine  to  it.  “Did  you  get 
the  money?” 

Al’s  laugh  is  without  humor.  “See  what  I mean, 
Conchita?  A booze-hound  with  no  j?uts,  but  he’s  ready 
at  the  payoff.”  He  mimics  Doc’s  voice.  “Did  you  get  the 
money?  You  want  a laugh,  Conchita?  He  may  look  like 
a human  whiskey  bottle  to  you,  but  our  brave  partner 
here  used  to  be  a doctor.  Yeah.  A regular  doctor  with  a 
white  coat.  To  hear  him  tell  it,  he  was  a regular  Mayo 
Clinic  until  he  started  drinking  up  the  medicinal 
alcohol.” 

His  tone  has  turned  ugly,  and  now  he  shifts  to 
face  Doc.  Concealed  by  the  movement  of  his  body,  his 
hand  curls  around  a marlin  spike  racked  near  the  rail. 

As  he  takes  a step  forward.  Doc  sees  the  weapon 
and  draws  back  apprehensively. 

“The  way  I figure  it,  rumdum,  you’re  more  of  a 
liability  than  an  asset.  Why  should  I split  with  you?  It 
was  me  that  located  the  guns  and  set  up  the  deal.” 

Stalked  by  Al,  Doc  scrambles  toward  the  fantail 
of  the  boat.  “Please,  Al,  please ...” 

Al  smiles  murderously  and  lunges  forward,  the 
spike  raised  to  strike.  Doc  covers  his  head  with  his 
arms  and  dodges  to  the  side.  His  legs  make  contact 
with  the  anchor-release  lever. 

With  a loud  rattle,  the  chairi  begins  to  pay  out, 
whipping  the  deck  like  a great  iron  snake.  Carried  by 
his  own  momentum,  unable  to  stop,  Al  is  hit  by  it  and 
loses  his  balance.  His  arms  flail  out  as  he  goes  down. 


He  screams  as  the  moving  chain  catches  him  and  slams 
him  against  the  gunwale.  He  screams,  again. 

Shocked,  Doc  looks  at  A1  lying  there  on  the  deck. 

A1  writhes  from  side  to  side,  his  arm  cradled 
against  his  chest.  “My  hand!  It  hurts!” 

“You  haven’t  got  a hand  anymore,  Al.  The  chain 
took  it  off.” 

Al’s  eyes  widen.  “No! . . .No!”  He  collapses. 

For  a long  moment.  Doc  looks  at  the  still  form  at 
his  feet.  The  parrot  claws  the  cage  and  squawks 
shrilly. 

“You  tried  to  kill  me,  Al.  If  I was  half  smart  I’d 
put  you  over  the  side.  You’re  an  animal.  A savage.  I’ve 
never  heard  you  give  anybody  a kind  word.  You  like 
hurting  people.  You  hate  everyone  and  everything. 
You  haven’t  a single  redeeming  feature,  unless  it’s  the 
way  you  feel  about  that  ugly  bird.  Only . . . only  I can’t 
do  it.  What  you  said  a while  ago  is  true.  I was  a doctor. 
Not  a very  good  one,  maybe,  but  it  was  my  job  to  save 
lives,  not  to  take  thtim.  You  wouldn’t  understand  that, 
would  you,  Al?” 

The  parrot  screams  harshly  as  Doc  begins  to 
drag  Al  toward  the  cabin.  Once  inside  the  tiny  com- 
partment, he  levers  Al  onto  the  single  cot.  He  rum- 
ages  underneath  and  brings  out  a black  bag  full  of 
shiny  instruments  and  bottles.  Fumbling  in  the  bottom 
of  the  bag,  he  takes  out  a pint  of  whiskey,  breaks  the 
seal,  takes  a healthy  belt,  and  recaps  the  bottle.  He 
goes  through  Al’s  pockets,  takes  the  thick  wad  of 
money,  and  puts  it  in  his  own  jacket  pocket.  Then,  tak- 
ing a hypo  from  the  bag,  he  fills  it  from  one  of  the  small 
bottles  and  injects  it  in  Al’s  arm  before  setting  to  the 
job  of  cleaning  and  bandaging. 


When  Al  is  resting  easily.  Doc  goes  topside.  For 
a time  he  looks  off  at  the  shifting  mists  that  obscure 


the  water  from  view.  He  listens  to  the  drum  of  the 
engines,  and  after  a while  he  sleeps. 

Time  passes.  How  long  it  has  been  Doc  doesn’t 
know.  Something  wakens  him.  He  sits  up 
quickly  and  looks  about,  but  sees  nothing.  He 
listens.  There  is  only  the  sound  of  engines,  water,  and 
the  screams  of  the  parrot.  Blinking,  Doc  rises  and  goes 
forward  to  have  a look  at  Al.  As  he  bends  over  the  still 
form  on  the  bed,  Al  opens  his  eyes. 

“Easy,”  says  Doc.  “You  haven’t  got  a right 
hand  anymore,  but  if  you  take  care  of  yourself  till  we 
get  to  shore,  you’ll  be  all  right.” 

As  he  pulls  back  the  blanket  to  have  a look,  his 
face  goes  pale.  His  eyes  widen  with  horror. 

“What  is  it?”  Al  asks  fearfully. 

Doc’s  voice  is  full  of  shocked  disbelief.  “Your 
hand . . . ” Al  tries  to  rise. 

“It’s  impossible!”  says  Doc  huskily.  “Your  hand. 
It’s  grown  back!” 

And  so  it  has.  Except  for  a light  white  line 
around  Al’s  right  wrist,  his  hands  are  whole  and 
perfect. 

A miracle  has  occurred,  and  Doc  is  slow  to 
recover  from  his  wonderment.  He  examines  the  hand. 
“Flex  your  fingers.” 

Al,  not  quite  comprehending  what  is  going  on, 
does  as  he  is  told. 

“Fantastic,”  saysi)oc.  “I  saw  it  severed  myself. 
I trimmed  the  flesh  and  put  on  the  bandage.” 

Al  has  never  seen  Doc  like  this  before.  “Maybe 
you  were  seeing  things.  They  say  that’s  what  the  juice 
does  to  you  when  you  drink  too  much  of  it.” 

“I  know  what  I saw,”  says  Doc.  “When  you 
came  at  me  with  that  marlin  spike . . . ” He  breaks  off, 
remembering  that  Al  has  tried  to  kill  him.  Al  stirs  un- 
comfortably, but  now  Doc’s  attention  is  centered  on 
the  miracle. 

“Look,”  he  says.  “This  has  never  happened 
before  in  medical  history.  There  are  certain  worms 
that  have  the  ability  to  regrow  lost  portions  of  them- 
selves. You  can  cut  one  of  them  in  two  pieces,  and  each 
piece  will  become  a separate  worm.  They’re  called 
Planaria.  Certain  forms  of  marine  life  have  it,  too— but 
never  a human.”  He  looks  at  Al  wildly.  “Do  you  know 
what  this  means?  Do  you  know  what  a secret  like  this 
is  worth?” 

At  the  mention  of  money,  Al  becomes  attentive. 
“If  this  thing  could  be  isolated— if  it  could  be 
reduced  to  formula  and  synthesized,  it  would  be  worth 
a fortune.  The  man  who  could  grow  back  arms  and  legs 
and  fingers  could. name  his  own  price.” 

“What  are  you  getting  at.  Doc?” 

“Somewhere  inside  your  blood  or  your  genes  is  a 
secret.  The  man  who  pries  it  loose  ■will  make  medical 
history.  I could  be  that  man.” 

“Now  wait  a minute ...” 

*9 


SEA  CHANGE 


“I  could  take  samples  of  your  blood  and  run  a 
series  of  tests.  And  if  it  isn’t  in  the  blood—” 

“If  you  think  I’m  going  to  let  a rumdum  like  you 
stick  knives  in  me,  you’re  out  of  your  mind.” 

Doc  is  fired  by  the  vision.  He  can  see  himself 
dressed  in  white,  surrounded  by  admiring  medical 
men,  a figure  to  command  respect  and  awe.  “You 
would  have  killed  me  if  it  wasn’t  for  the  anchor  chain,” 
he  says.  “I  saved  your  life.  You  were  bleeding  to  death. 
You  owe  it  to  me.” 

“I  owe  you  nothing.”  A1  raises  himself  up  on  the 
cot  and  puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket  that  held  the 
money.  It  is  gone.  “The  money!  It  was  in  my 
pocket ...”  His  voice  takes  on  a dangerous  edge. 

But  Doc  is  beyond  caring  about  the  money  or 
Al’s  anger.  He  sees  his  future  slipping  away  from  him. 
“Forget  about  the  money,”  he  cries.  “This  is  more  im- 
portant than  money.  I want  to  experiment.  . . ” 

A1  begins  getting  to  his  feet.  “You  want  to  get 
A1  Lucho  on  a table  so  you  can  cut  his  throat,  is  that  it? 
You  want  to  cut  him  up  and  make  serum  out  of  him?” 

And  now  Doc  knows  th^t  he  has  lost,  that  A1  has 
no  intention  of  cooperating  in  his  schemes.  His  hand 
closes  over  a club-length  of  wood  lying  on  a ledge  in  the 
cabin. 

“But  Al,  you’ve  got  to  let  me.  I won’t  let  you 
refuse.  You’ve  got  no  right—”  Hysterically  he  swings 
the  club  at  Al,  who  wards  off  the  blow;  and  then  Al  is 
upon  him.  Grabbing  Doc  by  the  throat,  he  slams  him 
against  the  bulkhead  and  begins  to  squeeze.  Doc  claws 
at  the  fingers  and  writhes  weakly. 

Suddenly  there  is  a sound  on  deck— a heavy 
sound  like  stumbling  footsteps.  Al  becomes  rigid, 
listening.  “What  was  that?”  His  fingers  loosen 
slightly.  He  cocks  his  head.  “It  sounded  like  someone 
out  there.” 

Doc  wrenches  free  from  the  choking  fingers.  He 
gasps  for  air,  sobbing.  Again  they  hear  the  sound  of 
dragging  footsteps.  Doc’s  eyes  flick  from  side  to  side. 
He  looks  at  Al  with  sudden  horror.  “The  hand!”  he 
says.  “What  happened  to  the  hand?” 

“WTiat  are  you  talking  about?” 

“Remember  what  I told  you  about  the  worms? 
How  you  can  cut  one  in  two  and  each  part  grows  into  a 
separate  worm?” 

“I  don’t-” 

“Two  pieces.  Two  worms.  Don’t  you  see?” 
i And  now  Al  understands  what  Doc  is  getting  at. 

I But  he  doesn’t  want  to  believe  it. 

Doc  takes  advantage  of  his  momentary  confu- 
sion. His  eyes  go  to  the  slim  scalpel  that  lies  on  the 
built-in  table  by  the  cot.  Continuing  to  talk,  he  edges 
toward  the  knife. 

“The  hand,  Al.  It  was  caught  in  the  anchor 
chain.  It’s  out  there  on  the  deck  somewhere,  the  bilges 
maybe,  washed  by  seawater.  You’ve  never  looked  at 
seawater  through  a microscope,  Al,  but  I have.  It’s 


aswarm  with  microbes  and  bacteria.  It’s  like  a rich 
soup  filled  with  living  things.” 

He  has  Al  going  now,  and  he  is  much  closer  to 
the  scalpel.  His  hand  trembles  above  it,  fingers 
reaching. 

“Can  you  pictpe  it  lying  there,  taking  substance 
from  the  sea?  Growing?  Changing?  You  take  one  worm 
and  cut  him  in  two  parts,  and  he  tecomes  two  worms. 
You  were  cut  in  two  parts,  Al,  and  one  of  the  parts 
grew  a hand.” 

“No!  It’s  impossible.  . .” 

“What  did  the  other  part  gi'ow,  Al?” 

“Shut  up!” 

“What’s  out  there  on  the  deck,  Al?” 

But  now  Doc  has  gone  too  far.  In  his  terror,  Al 
whirls  on  him  and  sees  Doc’s  fingers  closing 
about  the  scalpel.  He  lets  out  a yell  and  jumps 
forward.  For  a frantic  moment  they  fight  for  it;  then 
Al,  the  stronger,  wins  out.  He  wi-ests  the  blade  from 
Doc  and  plunges  it  downward.  Doc  collapses  with  a 
groan. 

Al  breathes  heavily,  looking  down  at  the  body. 
Then  he  raises  his  head,  nostrils  quivering.  He  hears 
the  strange  stumbling  sound  again. 

Holding  the  scalpel,  he  goes  to  the  door  of  the 
cabin  and  peers  into  the  darkness.  Nothing.  Opening 
the  door  cautiously,  he  edges  through  it  with  the  blade 
in  front  of  him.  He  takes  two  stealthy  steps,  listening 
intently. 

Suddenly  a hand  comes  out  of  the  blackness  and 
clamps  onto  his  shoulder.  He  gasps  and  whirls.  Before 
him  in  the  darkness  is  a huge  hulking  figure . . . 

An  involuntary  cry  bursts  from  Al’s  lips  as  he 
sees  the  figure’s  face.  It  is  himself,  his  eyes  and  lips 
and  bone  structure.  But  it  is  not  quite  the  same.  There 
is  an  unfinished  quality  about  the  face,  as  though  done 
by  a hasty  sculptor  who’s  missed  some  essential 
character  lines. 

Stunned,  paralyzed  with  fright,  Al  backs  away 
clumsily.  He  has  forgotten  the  knife  in  his  hand  as  the 
figure  moves  after  him.  Its  hands  are  like  loose  claws. 
Al  feels  the  rail  against  his  back,  and  then  it  gives  way. 
He  feels  himself  falling,  falling; . . . Then  there  is 
blackness. 

The  figure  turns  away  from  the  rail.  It  enters  the 
cabin  and  removes  the  bundle  of  money  from  Doc’s 
pocket.  It  carries  Doc’s  body  on  deck  and  dumps  him 
over  the  rail.  Chuckling  evilly,  it  begins  to  thumb 
through  the  bills. 

There  is  a shrill  cry,  and  the  figure  looks  up.  The 
parrot,  Conchita,  is  clawing  its  way  about  the  interior 
of  the  cage. 

A snarl  crosses  the  figure’s  face.  It  wrenches  the 
cage  free  from  its  moorings,  raises  it  high,  and  casts  it 
into  the  darkness.  It  smiles  then,  and  goes  forward  to 
steer  the  boat  toward  the  distant  port.  i0 


so 


Photos  courtesy  United  Artists 


T Z • SCREEN PREVIEW 

The  Beast  Within 


REPORTING  FROM  MISSISSIPPI,  ROBERT  MARTIN  PAYS  A VISIT  TO  THE  SET 
WHERE  AN  'ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  HORROR  FILMS'  IS  BEING  SHOT 


Producer  Harvey  Bernhard  draws  a strict  line  between 
his  Omeu  films  and  his  current  project.  The  Beast  Within, 
which  completed  principal  shooting  in  .Jackson,  Mississippi, 
in  March.  "I  don’t  consider  the  Omen  films  horror  pictures,” 
says  Bernhard.  "This  one,  on  the  other  hand,  is  exactly  that. 
It’s  been  designed  for  one  thing:  to  scare  the  shit  out  of 
everybody.  People  have  read  the  script  and  had  nightmares 
from  it.  It’s  a first-class  monster  picture,  and  the  best  script 
of  its  kind  that  I’ve  read.” 

Like  The  Omen,  The  Beast  Within  was  first  conceived 
by  Bernard  himself.  It  happened  when  he  spotted  a one- 
paragraph  listing  in  an  Arbor  House  book  catalogue  for  a 
novel  of  that  name  by  Edward  Levy.  A phone  call  turned  up 
the  information  that  the  book  had  not  yet  been  written,  but 
the  catalogue’s  brief  description  was  enough  to  convince 
Bernhard  to  take  an  option. 

"The  book  was  to  be  the  story  of  a fellow  who  believed 
that  sex  was  a sin  of  the  flesh,”  Bernhard  says,  "and  who 
marries  a young  girl  but  never  has  sex  with  her.  Along 
comes  the  proverbial  traveling  salesman,  who  beds  the  wife. 
The  first  guy  catches  them,  kills  the  girl,  and  keeps  the 
salesman  locked  in  a fruit  cellar  along  with  the  cadaver  of  the 
girl . . . Seventeen  years  later,  this  captive  has  turned 
bestial:  he  escapes,  kills  his  captor,  runs  into  the  swamp,  and 
rapes  a woman.  That  is  the  start  of  our  Beast  Within." 

The  novel,  which  has  since  been  published,  bears  very 
little  relationship  to  the  story  that  was  developed  by 
Bernhard  with  screenwriter  Tom  Holland  and  director 
Philippe  Mora.  (“I  paid  $2‘),0()0  for  a paragraph,”  Bernhard 
wails.)  As  the  film  opens,  FJli  Mact'leary  (Ronny  Cox  —best 
known  for  his  role  in  Deliverance)  and  his  bride  Caroline 


(Bibi  Besch)  are  returningto  their  home  in  .lackson  from  a 
blissful  honeymoon.  Their  joy  comes  to  a brutal  end  when 
Caroline  is  raped  on  a deserted  road  in  the  swamps  just 
outside  the  small  town  of  Nioba,  Mississippi.  Caroline  is 
severely  traumatized,  but  the  young  couple  manage  to 
resume  their  normal  lives  until,  a few  months  later,  Caroline 
learns  that  she  is  pregnant.  Whatever  secret  fears  they 
might  have  harbored  dissipate  when  Michael  is  born  — a 
perfectly  normal  male  child. 

Normal,  that  is,  until  he  reaches  seventeen  vears  of  age; 
then  Michael  is  suddenly  gripped  by  a strange  illness,  one 
that  slowly  lays  waste  to  his  body  but  defies  diagnosis. 

When  the  possibility  that  the  disease  may  be  hereditary  is 
raised,  the  MacClearys  must  resurrect  the  doubts  of  their 
past  and  return  to  Nioba. 

Once  in  Nioba,  Michael’s  "disease”  takes  some  strange 
turns,  providing  a rocky  road  for  his  love  affair  with  Amanda 
(Kitty  Moffat),  a local  girl.  Though  at  times  he  seems  the 
smiling,  friendly  lad  he’s  always  been,  at  others  he  becomes 
downright  bestial.  He  begins  gaining  height  and  u eight 
rapidly.  On  a visit  to  his  doctor  (played  by  veteran  character 
actor  R.  G.  Armstrong)  it’s  discovered  that  his  back  is 
starting  to  crack  along  the  spine— almost  as  if  he  were 
shedding  his  skin. 

Beyond  this  point,  the  story  of  The  Beast  Within 
remains  something  of  a mystery.  During  our  visit  to  the 
film’s  location,  certain  information  was  strictly  withheld  on 
the  orders  of  Mr.  Bernhard,  and  certain  photos  kept  strictly 
out  of  view.  All  of  the  mystery  surrounds  the  central  figure 
of  the  film— young  Michael,  who  is  possessed  by  the 
demonic  spirit  of  his  natural  father,  and  who  gradually 


SI 


Young  Michael's  increasingly  bizarre  behavior  provokes  a 
series  of  domestic  crises  for  the  MacCiearys.  (Left  to  right; 
Ronny  Cox,  Paul  Clemens,  Bibi  Besch.) 

develops  (luring  the  course  of  the  film  into  a rampaging 
beast. 

Paul  Clemens,  twenty-three  years  old,  seems  a natural 
choice  for  the  rok*  of  young  Michael:  his  look  and  manner  is 
that  of  the  likable  boy  next  door,  and  behind  him  are  several 
roles  di.splaying  a certain  vulnerability  reminiscent  of  the 
beast-possessed  Michael.  When  Tony  Richardson,  director 
of  A Tante  of  Honey,  helmed  the  Emmy-nominated  television 
adaptation  of  the  documentary  novel  A Death  in  Canaan , 
Clemens  played  Peter  Reilly,  a confused  Connecticut 
teenager  convicted  of  murder  due  to  a confession  elicited  by 
a “fatherly”  police  detective.  In  Ph-otnises  in  the  Dark,  a film 
that  was  critically  acclaimed  but  less  than  successful 
commercially,  he  played  the  boyfriend  of  a young  woman 
who  is  stricken  with  cancer.  Most  recently,  in  an  episode 
entitled  “Seldom  Silent,  Never  Heard”  on  the  television 
series  Quincy,  Clemens  gave  a sensitive  portrayal  of  a 
victim  of  Tourette’s  syndrome,  a dusorder  which  has  often 
been  mistaken  in  the  past  for  demonic  posses.sion.  This  last 
and  most  demanding  role  is  a particular  source  of  pride  for 
Clemens,  and  his  performance  is  considered  a chief 
contender  for  next  year’s  Emmies. 

Clemens’s  experience  portraying  such  psychically 
vulnerable  young  men  served  as  excellent  preparation  for 
the  multifaceted  role  of  Michael/the  Beast.  “Most  of  the 
roles  I’ve  played  in  the  past  have  been  very  sensitive 
characters.  ()ne  of  the  few  things  I liked  about  my  role  in 
California  Fever,  a film  I’d  just  as  soon  forget,  is  that  for 
once  I was  playing  a real  asshole,  an  obnoxious,  insensitive, 
spoiled  punk.  The  Beast  is  very  satisfying  for  me,  because 
there’s  moments  in  that  where  I’m  absolutely,  diabolically 
evil,  times  when  I’m  mildly  sinister,  and  other  times  when 
I’m  totally  sympathetic.” 

Director  Philippe  Mora  is  not  the  sort  one  would 
immediately  expect  to  find  in  association  with  producer 
Bernhard.  In  personality  and  temperament,  Bernhard 
comes  off  as  the  quintessential  Hollywood  film  producer, 
while  Mora  has  all  the  attributes  of  the  young  maverick 
director  who,  given  the  choice  between  art  and  profit,  would 
likely  opt  for  the  former.  His  first  feature  film  was  Trouble 
in  Melopolis,  a bizarre  musical  made  in  Australia  that  will 
probably  never  be  seen  in  the  U.S.  Inspired  by  The 
Threepenny  Opera,  the  Marx  Brothers,  and  the  193()s  style 
of  moviemaking,  it  starred  an  inmate  of  a Melbourne  mental 
institution  named  .lohn  Iver  Golding.  “I  was  having  lunch 
one  day  when  the  assistant  director  approached  me  with  a 
problem,”  Mora  recalls.  “He  told  me,  in  a very  low  voice, 
‘■John  Iver  has  done  a shit  on  the  set.’  I took  John  aside  and 
told  him  that  we  have  restrooms  for  that  sort  of  thing,  we 
don’t  do  it  on  the  set.”  He  smiles.  “And  ever  since.  I’ve  had  no 
problems  with  actors.”  When  Melopolis  opened  in  London, 
it  became  something  of  an  underground  cult  film.  “A  number 
52 


The  possesed  Michael  reveals  his  true  iiJentltY  to  Inctlan  Tom 
Laws  (Ron  Soble),  his  associate  trom  a former  life. 


Makeup  man  Tom  Burman  prepares  Clemens 
for  the  early  stages  of  his  transformation. 


Michael’s  relationship  with  Amanda  (Kitty  Moffat)  Is  threatened 
when  he  learns  of  her  involvement  in  the  events  of  long  ago. 


Helplessly,  Michael's  mother  and  doctor  (R.G.  Armstrong) 
watch  the  progress  of  his  bizarre  malady. 


of  critics  singled  .John  out,”  says  Mora.  "One  wrote,  ‘The 
portrayal  of  a lunatic  by  .John  Iver  Golding  is  outstanding.’  ” 

Mora’s  next  films  further  reflected  his  interest  in 
lunatics  and  the  11130s.  The  Double- Headed  Eagle  and 
Swastika , both  of  them  made  through  Mora’s  research  and 
scripting  and  tjie  latter  directed  by  him,  were  a pair  of  films 
documenting  Hitler’s  rise  to  power  and  the  Third  Reich. 
Swastika,  in  particular,  gathered  much  attention  due  to 
Mora’s  discovery  in  the  German  archives  of  eight-millimeter 
films  showing  the  home  life  of  the  Fuhrer  and  Eva  Braun. 

“At  the  point  I discovered  those  films,  I had  spent  two  years 
looking  at  Hitler  in  black  and  white.  To  suddenly  see  him  in 
color  was  (|uite  a shock;  it  suddenly  brought  him  into  the  real 
world  — whch  is  why  1 refer  to  Swastika  as  my  first  horror 
movie.” 

Again,  the  ’3()s  were  documented  in  Brother,  Can  You 
Spare  a Dime  f,  a “time  capsule”  of  American  culture  during 
the  Depression,  combining  excerpts  from  major  Warner 
Brothers  films  of  the  period  with  newsreel  footage  from 
Fox,  UPI,  and  the  national  archives  in  Washington. 

Mora  then  returned  to  Australia,  and  to  fiction  film, 
with  Mad  Dog,  starring  Dennis  Hopper  as  Daniel  “Mad 
Dog"  Morgan,  a legendary  frontier  outlaw.  Based  upon 
Mora’s  researches  in  Australian  police  records,  the 
film— though  not  widely  seen  in  this  country —came  to  the 
attention  of  several  United  Artists  executives  in  search  of 
new  directing  talent.  “They  sent  me  three  scripts,  all  horror 
films,”  recalls  Mora.  “1  suppose  they  liked  the  way  I handled 
the  violent  scenes  in  Mad  Dog.  Of  the  three.  The  Beast 
Within  was  the  best.  I subseijuently  met  Harvey  Bernhard 
and  executive  producer  Gabriel  Katzka,  and  we  agreed 
exactly  on  how  this  film  should  be  treated.  Should  The  Beast 
Within  prove  to  be  as  good  as  I hope  it  will  be,  it’s  because 
the  director  and  producers  are  acting  in  concert.” 

What  initially  attracted  Mora  to  the  script  in  its  early 
draft  was  “the  literal  transformation  of  the  central 
character.  We’re  all  constantly  in  a state  of  change.  There’s  a 
certain  amount  of  fear  connected  with  that,  and  it  serves  as 
the  basis  of  a great  many  horror  films.  Jekgll  and  Hyde,  is, 
of  course,  the  classic  example,  but  it’s  also  there  in 
Frankenstein  and  The  Wolf  Man:  the  fear  that  we  may  be 
transformed  into  something  beyond  our  own  control  — with 
death,  of  course,  viewed  as  the  final  transformation.  In  that 
way.  The  Beast  Within  is  almost  an  encyclopedia  of  horror 
films." 

The  encyclopedic  nature  of  the  film  stems  from  the 
Beast  itself,  and  its  development  in  stages  throughout  the 
picture— a series  of  monstrous  transformations  that  may 
recall  the  creature  in  Alien.  While  the  Beast’s  exact  nature 
has  been  kept  under  wraps,  the  Hollywood  grapevine  has 
not  remained  utterly  silent.  One  report  says  that  the  Beast, 
at  least  in  its  early  stages,  will  remind  audiences  of  the  more 


When  Michael  escapes  from  his  hospital  room,  Eli  is 
convinced  that  Tom  Laws  knows  more  than  he’s  telling. 


Doc  and  Ell  discover  the  body  of  Dexter  Ward  (Luke  Askew), 
one  of  the  Beast's  savaged  victims. 


Director  Philippe  Mora  lines  up  a shot. 


53 


frenzied  scenes  of  The  Exorcist;  another  says  that  at  least 
one  automated  puppet-head,  like  those  used  in  The  Howling, 
provides  some  of  the  shape-shifting  and  shock  effects.  Yet 
another  source  says  that  the  creature  is  at  times  reminiscent 
of  the  crustacean  monstrosities  that  inhabited  the  films  of 
Roger  Corman  and  others  in  the  lltoOs.  After  shooting  was 
completed,  we  spoke  again  with  Paul  C'lemens,  to  see  how 
much  closer  we  could  come  to  the  truth  of  the  matter. 

“I’d  have  to  say  no  to  all  of  that,”  says  Clemens. 

“Though  there  are  some  scenes  in  a hospital  that  may 
remind  some  people  of  The  Exorcist,  it’s  still  very  different. 
There  are  a lot  of  different  makeups  and  stages  of 
transformation,  and  there  were  a number  of  mechanicals 
used  that  are  similar  to  the  mechanicals  in  The  Howling  or 
Altered  States,  but  different  in  their  design.  Then,  too,  it’s 
like  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  because  of  Michael’s  relationship 
with  Amanda.  But  the  Beast  is  a very  unique  creation,  in 
ways  that  you’ll  have  to  see  for  yourself.  It’s  certainly  not 
The  Creature  from  the  Black  Lagoon,  or  anything  like  that.” 

He  notes  that,  in  some  respects,  the  creature  suggests 
the  growth-cycle  of  the  cicada  or  locust,  combining— by 
Indian  magic  — insect  and  human  forms.  But  it  by  no  means 
resembles  a giant  insect,”  he  hastens  to  add. 

“I  think  that  the  press  as  a whfde  has  been  given  a 
wrong  impression  of  the  film  because  of  the  reluctance  to 
discuss  or  show  any  of  its  special  aspects,  except  for  photos 
of  blood  and  gore— really  a minor  element  in  the  film." 

It’s  particularly  hard  for  Clemens  to  say  which  of  the 
two  sides  of  his  role  proved  the  most  demanding  — Michael 
or  the  Beast.  “Michael  is  a very  complicated  character, 
ranging  through  every  possible  emotion,  from  mild 
confusion  to  terror,  anger,  and  despair.  For  the  Beast,  some 
of  the  scenes  were  so  intense  that  I nearly  passed  out, 
and  — something  I’ve  never  heard  of  happening  on  a film  like 
this  — some  of  these  scenes  were  too  intense  for  the  crew  to 
watch;  some  crew  members  actually  left  the  set  during 
filming.  In  other  scenes,  I was  connected  to  a machine  that 
had  about  twelve  different  switches  on  it,  with  all  these 
tubes  running  into  me.  For  the  last  three  nights  of  shooting, 

I was  wearing  a full-body  suit  of  the  Beast  in  its  final  stage. 
Up  to  a point,  I was  grateful,  because  it  was  freezing  cold 
and  the  bulk  of  the  suit  provided  some  warmth.  I have  never 
given  myself,  physically  and  emotionally,  to  a role  as  much 
as  I did  to  this  one.” 

Whether  all  this  work  will  bring  him  fame  is  still  in 
question.  For  one  thing,  as  Clemens  points  out,  “it’s  a horror 
film,  and  the  acting  in  a horror  film  is  very  seldom  given  any 
serious  consideration.  Probably  the  only  notable  exception  is 
Carrie,  where  Sissy  Spacek  was  nominated  for  an  Academy 
Award.  But  then,  she  didn’t  get  it  until  Coal  Miner's 
Daughter." 

Another  factor  that  may  affect  the  reception  given  to 
Clemen’s  performance  and  to  that  of  the  entire  cast  and 
crew  is  the  current  change  of  regime  at  United  Artists, 
recently  purchased  from  the  Transamerica  Corporation  by 
MGM.  Though  the  film  was  originally  made  with  an  October 
release  date  in  mind,  plans  now  call  for  a spring  1982  release. 
Will  UA’s  executive  staff  continue  to  be  excited  about 
Bernhard’s  idea  of  a “classic  horror  film”  and  will  The  Beast 
Within  receive  the  promotion  and  planned  release  required 
for  success  in  the  crowded  genre? 

That  is  a question  that  possesses  even  more  mystery 
that  the  elusive  Beast.  iS 


With  a full-fledged  monster  on  the  loose  and  out  for  vengeance, 
Amanda's  world  is  shattered  by  a series  of  bestial  slayings. 


Ell’s  search  Into  the  past  reveals  the  secret 
origins  of  Michael's  Beastly  tendencies 


As  the  Beast  goes  on  a final  rampage,  Eli,  fully  armed,  sets 
out  in  search  of  his  errant  son. 


54 


Dr.  Van  Helsing’s 
Handy  Guide  to  Ghost  Stories 

Part  III 

by  Kurt  Van  Helsing 


THE  PROFESSOR  CONTINUES  HIS  LEARNED- AND  HIGHLY  OPINIONATED- 
DISQUISITION  ON  THE  SUPERNATURAL.  TODAY'S  TOPIC: 

'THE  AESTHETICS  OF  THE  GHOST  STORY' 


Lmg  before  there  was  a Stephen 
King  or  a William  Blatty  or  a string 
of  movies  shot  in  the  dark  and  cele- 
brating knives,  there  was  an  Anglo- 
Irish  writer  named  Sheridan  LeFanu. 
LeFanu  lived  in  Dublin  in  the  mid- 
nineteenth century. . . . His  nights  were 
haunted  by  nightmares  about  a house 
on  the  verge  of  collapse,  and  when  he 
died  unexpectedly  a friend  said,  “The 
house  has  fallen  at  l^t.” 

— New  York  Times  editorial 
June  7, 1981 


Though  LeFanu  was  rumored  to 
have  scared  himself  to  death,  few 
writers  have  followed  his  example. 
They’re  much  more  interested  in  scar- 
ing the  reader:  to  which  end  the 
supernatural  tale  is  singularly  well 
suited. 

The  trick  is  to  make  the  reader 
believe  in  things  he  knows  are  not  — 
and  could  not  "be— true.  Some  writers 
have  professed  to  find  this  little  trou- 
ble. A.  E.  Coppard  felt  that  the  su- 
pernatural mode  “makes  work  easy, 


for  with  its  enchanting  aid  a writer 
can  ignore  problems  of  time  and  tide, 
probability,  price,  perspicuity,  and 
sheer  damn  sense,  and  abandon  him- 
self to  singular  freedoms  on  the  aery 
winds  of  Never-was,”  and  Robert 
Bloch  is  somevi’hat  more  blunt:  he 
chose  to  write  fantasy  rather  than  sci- 
ence fiction,  he  says,  “because  I could 
be  sloppier.” 

But  Edith  Wharton  felt  differ- 
ently (“It  is,  in  fact,  not  easy  to  write 
a ghost  story”),  H.  Russell  Wakefield 


lllusIraHora  by  L»0  Brown  Coye  from  Steep  No  More  (Farrar  & Rinehart.  New  york.  © 1944  by  August  Derleth)  and  Who  Knocks?  (Rinehart  at  Co.,  New  ybrk,  © 1946  by  August  Derleth). 


agreed  (“Ghost  stories  are  very  dif- 
ficult to  write”),  and  Walter  de  la 
Mare  thought  that  the  form  demanded 
absolute  perfection— as  we  shall  see 
below.  “It  is  certainly  the  most  exact- 
ing form  of  literary  art,”  said  L.  P. 
Hartley,  "and  perhaps  the  only  one  in 
which  there  is  no  intermediate  step 
between  success  and  failure.  Either  it 
comes  off  or  it  is  a flop.” 

One  way  to  decrease  the  chances 
of  a flop  is,  crass  as  it  may  sound,  to 
employ  the  salesman’s  ancient  device 
of  allowing  the  customer  to  “sell 
himself’  — which  in  this  case  means  al- 
lowing the  reader  to  scare  himself. 
(The  concept  predates  salesmen:  in 
“The  Scholar  of  Changchow,”  written 
during  the  Sung  Dynasty,  Yi  Chieh 
concludes,  “Nothing  in  the  world 
should  be  feared,  but  there  are  men 
who  scare  themselves.”) 

Like  the  customer,  the  reader 
must  be  made  to  feel  he  has  reached 
his  own  conclusions  — even  when,  in 
fact,  he  has  been  led  to  them.  There  is 
nothing  immoral  in  this;  all  art  in- 
volves manipulation,,  and  what  distin- 
guishes good  art  from  bad  is  that,  in 
the  former,  one  simply  doesn’t  notice. 

Supernatural  fiction  manipulates 
best  when  certain  details  are  left  up  to 
the  reader’s  imagination;  “reading,” 
Edith  Wharton  said,  “should  be  a cre- 
ative act  as  well  as  w riting,”  and  she 
spoke  gratefully  of  her  audience’s 
“meeting  me  halfway  among  the 
primeval  shadows,  and  filling  in  the 
gaps  in  my  narrative  with  sensations 
and  divinations  akin  to  my  own.” 
Therefore,  many  of  the  most  success- 
ful ghost  tales  are  told  in  fragmentary 
form,  or  in  a style  that  savors  of  a cer- 
tain disquieting  vagueness,  or,  as 
M.  R.  James  suggested,  with  “a  slight 
haze  of  distance.” 

Of  course,  too  much  haze— too 
much  obscurity  and  ambiguity  — pro- 
duces more  frustration  than  fright,  as 
de  la  Mare’s  w'ork  all  too  frequently 
proves.  But  when  a ghost  story  fails  to 
move  the  reader  (and,  sadly,  the  vast 
majority  do  fail),  the  fault  is  generally 
in  its  excessive  need  to  “spell  things 
out,”  for  clarity  is  an  enemy  ef  spec- 
tral fear.  “Isn’t  it  more  devastating  to 
one’s  sanity  to  see  the  shadow  of  a re- 
venge ghost  east  on  the  wall— to  know 
that  a vindictive  spirit  is  beside  one 
but  invisible— than  to  see  the  specter 
himself?”  asked  * Columbia  professor 
Dorothy  Scarborough,  writing  of 
Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman’s  classic 


New  England  horror  tale  “The 
Shadows  on  the  Wall.”  “Under  such 
circumstances,  the  sight  of  a skeleton 
or  a sheeted  phantom  would  be  dowm- 
right  comforting.” 

If  clarity  is  to  be  avoided,  so,  too, 
should  excessive  length;  the  mood  of 
fear  is  difficult  enough  to  arouse, 
much  less  to  sustain  for  page  after 
page.  “It  is,  I think,  w'ell-nigh  essen- 
tial for  success  that  the  ghost  story 
should  be  short,”  wrote  historian  Mon- 
tague Summers.  “Only  the  adroitest 
skill  and  talent  of  no  ordinary  kind  can 
avail  to  keep  the  reader  in  that  state 


of  expectancy  bordering  on  the  un- 
pleasant yet  never  quite  overstepping 
the  line  which  is  the  true  triumph  of 
this  genre.  All  too  frequently  a tale 
spun  in  many  chapters  is  apt  either,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  fall  slovenly  flat,  to 
become  banal  and  to  bore;  or  else  on 
the  other  to  swell  into  crude  physical 
disgust  and  end  as  a mere  mixen  of 
horror.”  Indeed,  as  anthologist  Alex- 
ander Laing  observed,  “the  effort  to 
be  unremittingly  horrendous  defeats 
itself.  . . . Even  fright,  alas!,  can  die  of 
monotony.” 

Today,  of  course.  Summers’  and 
Laing’s  warnings  have  been  all  but 
forgotten,  and  we  are  now  witnessing 
the  triumph  of  the  supernatural 
novel  — a triumph  more  commercial 
than  literary.  The  vast  majority  of 
them  do,  in  fact,  resemble  a “mixen,” 
i.e.  a midden  or  dung  heap;  British 
writer  James  Herbert’s  books  are 
cases  in  point,  relying  upon  periodic 
dollops  of  gore  in  place  of  mood  and 
feeling.  Even  the  better  novels  in  the 
genre,  such  as  William  Peter  Blatty’s 
The  Exorcist  and  Thomas  Tryon’s  The 
Other,  while  skillful  and  deservedly 
popular,  tend  to  lapse  into  a predicta- 
ble succession  of  chapter-by-chapter 
shock^— an  approach  which,  in  less 
skilled  hands,  becomes  (as  Laing 
warned)  increasingly  monotonous. 

In  truth,  supernatural  horror  is  a 
form  that  lends  itself  best  to  the  short 
story  or  novelette;  it  is  not  well  suited 
to  the  full-length  novel,  and  certainly 
not  to  the  five-  and  six-hundred-page 
blockbusters  so  prevalent  today.  What 
. may  arguably  be  the  only  real  suc- 
cesses in  the  field  to  date  — William 
Hope  Hodgson’s  The  House  on  the 
Borderland,  and  H.  P.  Lovecraft’s  The 
Case  of  Charles  Dexter  Ward  and  The 
Dream-Quest  of  Unknown  Kadath  — 
are  fifty  thousand  words  or  less  in 
length:  very  thin  novels  indeed. 

Although  one  looks  in  vain 
through  Henry  James’s  prose  for  a 
short  sentence  or  a thought  simply 
expressed,  he,  too,  apparently  favored 
brevity  in  the  horror  tale,  though  un- 
able to  achieve  it  himself:  “Prolonga- 
tion and  extension  constitute  a strain,” 
he  wrote,  “which  the  mere  appari- 
*tional  . . . doesn’t  do  enough  to  miti- 
gate.” The  late  Dashiell  Hammett  — 
whose  style  tended  to  the  other 
extreme  — felt  much  the  same:  “Few 
weird  stories  have  run  successfully  to 
any  great  length,”  he  said,  noting  that 


57 


Handy  Guide  to  Ghost  Stories 


even  the  most  powerful  tales  depend 
upon  one  or  two  fortuitous  phrases 
(Lovecraft  called  them  “high 
spots”)  — a chilling  line,  perhaps,  or 
some  image  in  which  the  developing 
mood  seems  to  crystallize  in  a shudder 
of  terror.  “This  shudder,”  said  Ham- 
mett, “is  almost  always  momentary, 
almost  never  duplicated.” 

Characteristically,  this  shudder 
does  not  come  until  the  climax  of  the 
tale;  in  fact,  some  of  the  shortest 
ghost  stories  on  record  are  little  more 
than  climaxes.  A couple  called  “The 
Gibsons”  won  a New  Statesman  com- 
petition in  Britain  with  a 200-worder 
about  a man  who  grows  increasingly 
nervous  while  walking  down  a winding 
moonlit  road; 

Yet  what  had  he  to  fear  if 
this  place  were  evil  — was  he  not 
an  upright  and  godly  man  wfco 
held  no  traffic  with  evil?  If 
wicked  spirits  had  power  over 
such  men  as  he,  there  would  be 
no  justice  in  it. 

“That’s  true,”  said  a voice 
behind  him,  “there  isn’t.” 

Such  succinctness  is  surely  lauda- 
ble, but  it  is  hardly  new;  during  the 
“Southern  and  Northern  Dynasties” 
the  Chinese  storyteller  Liu  Yi-ching 
was  including  in  his  Records  of  Light 
and  Dark  snippets  such  as  this,  told 
here  in  its  entirety:  “Once  in  the  privy 
-Juan  Teh-Ju  saw  a ghost.  More  than 
ten  feet  tall,  black  with  bulging  eyes, 
it  was  dressed  in  a -dark  coat  and  cap. 
And  this  apparition  was  less  than  a 
foot  from  his  side.  Quite  calm  and 
composed,  Juan  told  it  with  a smile: 
‘People  say  that  ghosts  are  hideous; 
they  certainly  are!’  Then,  red  with 
shame,  the  ghost  made  off.” 

There  is  also  the  diminutive  tale 
of  the  two  figures  walking  one  night 
across  the  moors.  “Do  you  believe  in 
ghosts?”  asks  one. 

“No.” 

“/  do,”  says  the  first— and  van- 
ishes. 

And  there  is,  too,  that  famous 
short-short  attributed  to  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich— “The  last  man  on 
earth  heard  a knocking  at  his  door”  (to 
which  Fredrick  Brown  added  a happy 
ending,  the  visitor  being  the  last 
woman)  — as  well  as  what  former  pulp 
writer  E.  Hoffman  Price  has  dubbed 
“the  shortest  weird  story  ever  writ- 

5S 


ten:  He  crept  into  a crypt  and  crapt.” 
We  have  even  seen  the  ghost  tale  re- 
duced to  a single  word  — “Boo!” 

Brevity  such  as  this  is  best  left  to 
prize  contests  and  license  plates,  for  it 
comes  at  the  expense  of  a quality  even 
more  necessary  to  weird  fiction:  atmo- 
sphere. Walter  de  la  Mare  called  it  “all 
important.”  “The  fine  ghost  story,”  he 
said,  “must  be  far  more  than  decently, 
it  should  be  excellently  written  — 
every  word,  every  cadence,  every 
metaphor  apt  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
Here  the  finer  shades  make  a supreme 
difference;  not  merely  the  dot  over  the 
i but  where  it’s  put.  How  else  is  all 
that  atmosphere  to  be  conveyed?” 

Indeed,  atmosphere  is  the  life- 
blood of  the  ghost  story.  In  most  short 
fiction,  character  and  plot  are  of  su- 
preme importance,  and  in  mystery, 
plot  predominates;  but  in  supernatural 
fiction  they  are  secondary,  for  too 
complicated  a plot  detracts  from  the 
emotional  belief  on  which  ghost  tales 
depend,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  indi- 
vidual characters  pale  beside  the  ex- 
traordinary circumstances  into  which 
they’ve  been  thrust.  In  science  fiction 
the  major  element  is  usually  the  idea, 
but  most  weird  fiction  plays  variations 
upon  a single  basic  idea:  an  individual’s 
growing  awareness  that  “natural  ex- 
planations” are  useless  and  that  his 
world  has  been  invaded  by  some 
supernatural  force— one  which,  in  the 
end,  he  may  yield  to  or  attempt  to 
combat. 

Because  they  dispense  with  the 
“natural  explanations,”  no  forms  of  lit- 
erature make  so  many  demands  upon 
our  emotional  belief  as  ghost  tales  and 
fairy  tales.  The  latter,  however,  pre- 
suppose a world  in  which  magic  works, 
while  the  former  must  persuade  us 
that  magic  works  in  our  own  world. 

This,  then,  is  the  function  of  at- 
mosphere: to  take  the  reader,  by  easy 
stages,  from  the  natural  to  the  super- 
natural. We  must  first  be  grounded  in 
a world  that  is  convincingly  normal; 
“a  good  ghost-story,”  wrote  Henry 
James,  “to  be  half  as  terrible  as  a good 
murder-story,  must  be  connected  at  a 
hundred  points  with  the  common  ob- 
jects of  life. . . . The  extraordinary  is 
most  extraordinary  in  that  it  happens 
to  you  and  me.” 

Only  after  a successful  grounding 
in  reality  can  the  story  produce  in  the 
reader,  as  de  la  Mare  hoped,  “the 
gradual  conviction  that  this  workaday 
actuality  of  ours  — with  its  bricks,  its 


streets,  its  woods,  its  hills,  its 
waters  — may  have  queer  and,  possi- 
bly, terrifying  holes  in  it.”  The  ulti- 
mate goal,  as  M.  R.  James  saw  it,  was 
to  put  the  reader  “into  the  position  of 
saying  to  himself,  ‘If  I’m  not  very 
careful,  something  of  this  kind  may 
happen  to  me.’  ” 

To  produce  this  sort  of  conviction 
in  the  modern  reader  is  no  easy  task. 
In  ages  past,  Vvfriting  for  audiences 
who  already  believed  in  ghosts,  writ- 
ers had  little  need  of  a fine  style  and 
provided  few  touches  of  spectral  atmo- 
sphere; they  w(Te  preaching  to  the 
converted,  and  emotional  belief  came 
easily  when  intellectual  belief  could 
simply  be  assumed. 

It’s  extremely  significant,  there- 
fore, that  supe)'natural  fiction  as  a 
literary  form— and  the  first  efforts  at 
a really  persuasive  style— appeared 
when  belief  was  on  the  wane.  Maurice 
Richardson  speaks  of  “the  outcrop  of 
Gothic  romance, s in  the  eighteenth 


century  and  ghost  stories  in  the 
nineteenth:  they  could  only  be  engen- 
dered in  an  allegedly  rational  age 
when  superstition  had  been  sup- 
posedly surmounted.”  As  Pamela 
Search  observes  in  The  Supernatural 
in  the  English  ShoH  Story  (1959), 
“Ghosts,  in  a word,  suddenly  became 
much  worse!' 

Just  how  much  worse  can  be  seen 
in  the  public’s  reaction  to  The  Castle 
of  Otranto;  though  it  seems  crude  to- 
day, Walpole’s  use  of  atmosphere  over- 
came the  age’s  new-found  skepticism 
and  successfully  fostered  an  emotional 
belief.  “It  makes  some  of  us  cry  a lit- 
tle,” wrote  the  poet  Thomas  Gray, 
“and  all  in  general  afraid  to  go  to  bed 
o’  nights.” 

Creating  that  sort  of  fear  today 
requires  a far  more  subtle  hand.  Since 
the  slow,  careful  buildup  of  atmo- 
sphere is  absolutely  essential,  the 
ghost  story  depends,  as  no  other 
genre  does,  on  plain  old-fashioned 
good  writing — another  respect  in 
which  it  differs  from  science  fiction. 
Wrote  the  late  August:  Derleth: 

The  incontrovertible  fact— how- 
ever distasteful  it  :may  be  to  . . . 
others  w'ho  go  in  for  s-f  heavily 
and  uncritically  — :is  that  there 
are  very  few  science-fiction  sto- 
ries which  have  literary  value; 
for  every  one  that  does,  there 
are  a hundred  supernatural  sto- 
ries w’hich  do.  No  impartial  cri- 
tic could  fail  to  agi'ee. ...  I per- 
sonally enjoy  science-fiction  and 
get  all  the  s-f  magazines.  But  my 
personal  enjoyment  cannot  blunt 
my  critical  faculty. 

Derleth  was  no  doubt  overstating  the 
case  a bit— he  himself  wrote  horror 
stories,  not  science  fiction,  and  was 
hardly  the  “impartial  critic”  he  pre- 
tended to  be  — but  his  point  is  well 
taken:  the  successful  ghost  story  must 
possess  real  literary  merit. 

Because  writers  in  this  genre  are 
forced  to  pay  so  much  attention  to 
style,  and  because  the  necessary  at- 
mosphere must  be  built  up  with  some 
degree  of  subtlety,  the  ghost  story  is 
among  the  most  fragile  of  literary 
forms.  Like  humor,  sex,  or  high 
romance  — forms  equally  vulnerable  to 
shifts  of  mood— the  ghost  story  is 
forever  at  the  mercy  of  boredom,  dis- 
traction, or  ridicule.  A single  laugh 
can  shatter  it.  The  hcTO  of  Dunsany’s 


“The  Ghosts”  disperses  “a  herd  of 
black  creatures”  that  haunt  a Scottish 
manor  house  by  concentrating  hard  on 
some  algebraic  equations;  in  another 
Dunsany  tale,  “How  the  Enemy  Came 
to  T-hlunrana,”  a daring  young  adven- 
turer breaches  the  walls  of  a fearsome 
enchanted  castle,  tremblingly  makes 
his  way  past  glowering  magicians  to 
the  legendary  sanctum  sanctorum, 
spies  the  unnamed  thing  that  waits 
behind  an  ominous  silk  curtain  — and 
laughs.  The  magicians  flee;  the  castle 
falls;  the  spell  is  broken. 

Because  fear  is  dispelled  by 
laughter — and  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
main  reasons  w'e  laugh  at  all— the 
humorous  ghost  story  is  therefore 


something  of  a contradiction.  Sum- 
mers disapproved  of  them,  Richardson 
w'arns  that  “humor  is  fatal  to  the  ghost 
story,”  and  none  other  than  Sigmund 
Freud  has  written:  “Even  a real  ghost, 
as  in  Oscar  Wilde’s  ‘Canterville  Ghost,’ 
loses  all  pow’er  as  soon  as  the  author 
begins  to  amuse  himself  at  its  ex- 
pense.” 

Indeed,  there  are  probably  more 
uneasy  chuckles  to  be  found  in  stories 
that  set  out  to  terrify,  such  as  Mar- 
jorie Bowmen’s  chilling  account  of  “The 
Crown  Derby  Plate,”  than  in  all  the 
deliberately  “comic”-  efforts  of  Wilde, 
Don  Wenceslao  Fernandez  Florez 
{Laugh  and  the  Ghosts  Laugh  with 
You),  John  Kendrick  Bangs,  and 
Richard  Middleton.  (Bangs’s  House- 
boat on  the  Styx,  inhabited  by  the 
shades  of  Shakespeare  and  other  his- 
torical figures,  offers  little  more  than 
a few  smug  caricatures,  and  his  fa- 
mous “Water  Ghost  of  Harrow'ay  Hall” 
is  a callously  unfunny  piece  of  sadism. 
Middleton,  a suicide  at  twenty-nine, 
wrote  a few  gentle  but  haunting 
supernatural  sketches  and  one  coy  at- 
tempt at  whimsy,  “The  Ghost 
Ship”  — which,  mysteriously,  has  be- 
come his  best-known  work.)  Ignoring 
the  ancient  Chinese,  whose  ghost 
legencfs  were  spiced  with  low  comedy, 
and  also  ignoring  the  Victorian  Eng- 
lish humorist  Jerome  Klapka  Jerome, 
whose  collection  Told  After  Supper  is 
perhaps  the  only  consistently  amusing 
writing  in  the  entire  field,  Dorothy 
Scarborough  asserted  that  “the  hu- 
morous ghost  is  not  only  modern,  but 
he  is  distinctively  American.”  A sam- 
pling of  her  anthology  Humorous 
Ghost  Stories  serves  only  to  prove 
that,  for  the  most  part,  this  form  is 
neither  funny  nor  scary. 

Aside  from  laughter,  there  is 
another  sure  way  to  kill  a ghost:  by 
imprisoning  him  within  some  narrow 
political  or  theological  framework. 
Ghost  stories  have  been  written  to 
damn  or  defend  the  Pope,  to  promote 
temperance,  and  to  attack  abortion. 
(One  such  tale  conjures  up  the  spirits 
of  dozens  of  “murdered”  fetuses.) 
Some  authors  have  given  their  fiction 
a tilt  toward  the  Right  (Russell  Kirk’s 
villains  tend  to  be  “oily”  and  “vul- 
turine”  immigrants  with  unsavory 
manners  and  liberal  ideas),  while  the 
Red  Chinese  have  put  their  specters 
to  work  in  the  service  of  International 
Communism.  “Belief  in  ghosts  is  a 
backward  idea,  a superstition  and  a 


59 


Handy  Guide  to  Ghost  Stories 


sign  of  cowardice,”  says  the  preface  to 
a collection  of  Stories  about  Not  Being 
Afraid  of  Ghosts  (Peking,  1961),  com- 
piled by  “The  Institute  of  Literature 
of  the  Chinese  Academy  of  Sciences” 
and  addressed  to  an  audience  of  “thor- 
oughgoing dialectical  materialists  and 
genuine  proletarian  revolutionaries.” 

A man  who  is  cowardly  at  heart 
and  has  not  emancipated  his 
mind  will  be  afraid  of  non- 
e.xistent  ghosts  and  gods.  But  if 
he  raises  his  level  of  political  un- 
derstanding, does  away  with 
superstition  and  emancipates  his 
mind,  he  will  find  not  only  that 
ghosts  and  gods  are  nothing  to 
be  afraid  of  but  that  im- 
perialism, reaction,  revisionism 
and  all  natural  or  man-made 
calamities  that  actually  exist, 
are  also  nothing  for  Marxist- 
Leninists  to  be  afraid  of. . . . 
There  are  no  ghosts  . . . but 
there  are  actually  many  things 
in  this  world  which  are  like 
ghosts.  Some  are  big,  such  as  in- 
ternational imperialism  and  its 
henchmen  in  various  countries, 
modern  revisionism  represented 
by  the  Tito  clique  of  Yugoslavia, 
serious  natural  calamities  and 
certain  not-yet-reformed  mem- 
bers of  the  landlord  and  bour- 
geois classes  who  have  usurped 
leadership  in  some  organizations 
at  the  primary  level  and  staged 
a come-back  there.  Some  are 
small,  such  as  difficulties  and 
setbacks  in  ordinary  work,  etc. 

All  these  can  be  said  to  be 
ghost-like  things. 

Imposing  political  doctrines  on 
the  supernatural  tale  can  be  as  unfor- 
tunate a mistake  as  poking  fun  at  it;  in 
either  case  this  fragile  form  tends  to 
wither.  Nor  can  it  survive  for  long 
under  adverse  conditions;  its  success 
depends  upon  a certain  patience  and 
good  will  on  the  part  of  the  reader. 
Like  most  short  fiction,  for  example, 
but  perhaps  to  a greater  degree,  ghost 
stories  tend  to  diminish  in  power  if  a 
number  of  them  are  read  at  one  sit- 
ting; just  as  in  a tale  that  goes  on  too 
long,  the  horror  is  seldom  cumulative, 
and  the  tales’  essential  similarities  be- 
come all  too  apparent. 

For  that  matter,  because  atmo- 
sphere must  be  built  up  one  dab  at  a 
time,  ghost  stories  must  not  be  read 


too  quickly;  nor  do  they  lend  them- 
selves to  easy  summarization.  A critic 
once  praised  the  horror  tales  of  H.  P. 
Lovecraft  for  being  so  powerful  that 
“they  can  raise  a chill  even  on  the 
subway,”  but  few  tales  in  the  genre 
can  make  that  claim;  “ghosts,”  said 
Edith  Wharton,  “to  make  themselves 
manifest,  require  two  conditions  ab- 
horrent to  the  modern  mind:  silence 
and  continuity.”  Requirements  like 
these  are  rarely  met  today;  noise  dis- 
tracts our  concentration,  and  we  de- 
vote less  of  our  leisure  to  reading. 
Surely  it  is  these  circumstances,  and 
not  the  prevailing  climate  of  scientific 
skepticism,  which  account  for  the 
ghost  story’s  decrease  in  popularity. 

L.  P.  Hartley  once  complained 
that  he  found  it  difficult  to  so  much  as 
think  about  ghosts  “in  the  bright  sun- 
shine of  an  Italian  morning.”  Aware  of 
the  genre’s  unique  vulnerability  to 


surrounding  mood,  many  ghost-story 
writers  and  anth(3logists  have  prefaced 
their  works  by  admonishing  readers  to 
sample  the  stories  only  under  the  most 
ideal  conditions.  “If  you  can  induce 
your  friends  to  r(?ad  what  follows  after 
nightfall,  and  when  the  fireside  talk 
has  run  on  for  a \vhile  on  thrilling  tales 
of  shapeless  terror,”  wrote  J.  Sheridan 
LeFanu,  the  gemre’s  first  great  practi- 
tioner, “I  will  go  to  my  work,  and  say 
my  say,  with  better  heart.” 

Darkness  appears  to  be  a prere- 
quisite—ideally,  as  Boris  Karloff  sug- 
gested in  a 1946  preface,  “the  hour  be- 
tween dog  and  wolf  when  the  mind  is 
disposed  to  marvels,”  or  to  what 
Henry  James  apt  ly  called  “apparitions 
and  night-fears.”  Indeed,  night  is  the 
time  when  even  the  most  sophisticated 
are  forced  to  entertain  the  possibility 
of  evil  spirits,  and  most  supernatural 
collections  make  some  mention  of  it  in 
their  titles.  (Summers  alludes  to  a 
number  of  nonfutional  works  that  re- 
peat this  same  motif,  from  Lavater’s 
Of  Ghostes  and  Spirites  Walking  by 
Nyght  and  of  strange  Noyses, 
Crackes,  and  Sundry  Forewarnynges 
[English  translation  1572],  Peter 
Thyraeus’s  1594  De  Apparitionibus 
. . . et  terrificationibus  nocturnis  [Of 
Ghosts  and  of  Midnight  Terror],  and 
Thomas  Nashe’s  The  Terrors  of  the 
Night,  or  A Discourse  of  Apparitions, 
1594,  to  Catherine  Crowe’s  The  Night 
Side  of  Nature,  1848.) 

The  ideal  night  for  ghostly  read- 
ing was  described  by  E.  F.  Benson  in 
his  introduction  to  The  Room  in  the 
Tower,  whose  stories,  he  said,  were 
“written  in  the  hope  of  giving  some 
pleasant  qualms. ...  So  that,  if  by 
chance,  anyone  may  be  occupying  in 
their  perusal  a leisure  half-hour  before 
he  goes  to  bed,  w hen  the  night  and  the 
house  are  still,  h(j  may  perhaps  cast  an 
occasional  glance  into  the  corners  and 
dark  places  of  the  room  where  he  sits, 
to  make  sure  that  nothing  unusual 
lurks  in  the  shadow.” 

Yet  why  would  anyone  in  his  right 
mind  want  to  experience  these  so- 
called  “pleasant  qualms”?  Who  but  a 
fool  or  a masochist  actually  wants  to 
be  scared? 

The  fact  is,  there’s  a basic  fallacy 
in  the  question  so  posed,  and  I’ll  exam- 
ine it  next  month  in  my  concluding 
visit  to  these  pages.  My  topic,  optimis- 
tically titled,  will  be  “Pleasures  of 
the  Ghost  Story.”  Until  then,  class 
dismissed.  iB 


60 


tliustration  by  Jcs4  Reyes 


by  Chet  Williamson 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  HAS  SPAWNED  A WHOLE  NEW  WAY  OF  LIFE. 
NOW  IT'S  EVEN  SPAWNED  A NEW  BREED  OF  GHOST 


I 

It  began  late  one  Friday  night.  I’d  stayed  in  the 
city  to  see  a film  that  ended  around  eleven,  and 
walking  back  to  my  car  I remembered  that  I’d  left 
j some  copy  that  I wanted  to  work  on  that  weekend  in 
my  office.  I signed  in  with  the  night  man  and  hopped 
! the  elevator  to  the  sixth  floor.  A trio  of  widely  sep- 
; arated  lights  provided  the  only  illumination,  but  I had 
' no  trouble  finding  my  way  to  the  suite  of  twenty 
cubicles  that  was  the  advertising  department.  With- 
out turning  on  my  desk  light,  I slipped  the  copy  under 

i 


my  arm  and  started  out.  ! 

Then  I saw  Larry  Donaldson  in  the  office  across  ■ 
the  hall. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  semidarkness,  his  elbows 
straddling  the  blajik  bulk  of  the  typewriter  in  front  of 
him.  He  was  staring  through  thick-lensed  glasses  at 
the  empty  carriage,  and  I heard  a low  sigh  press  timid- 
ly against  the  thick  silence. 

Seeing  him  startled  me.  I’d  noticed  no  other  | 
name  on  the  sign-in  sheet,  and  I wondered  if  he’d  been  i 


©IHFQO 


here  since  five  o’clock.  Hell,  on  a Friday  night? 

“Larry,”  I called,  and  shook  a little  at  the  odd 
feeling  of  my  spoken  word  just  hanging  in  the  air. 
“Larry,”  I said  louder,  “what  are  you  doing  here?” 

He  didn’t  move  or  turn  or  speak;  he  just  sat  star- 
ing at  that  empty  typewriter.  And  then,  almost  im- 
perceptibly, he  began  to  fade,  and  I suddenly  realized 
that  I was  seeing  thr(mgh  him,  as  if  through  cloudy 
water.  By  the  time  I felt  any  astonishment,  he  was 
gone. 

“Jesus  Christ,”  I said  softly. 

Then  the  thought  came  over  me  like  an  old  warm 
blanket  with  just  enough  holes  to  let  a little  chill  in:  I 
had  seen  a ghost.  Somehow,  since  I last  saw  him  that 
afternoon,  Larry  Donaldson  had  died. 

It  was  possible.  Larry  was  in  his  mid-forties, 
smoked  a couple  of  packs  a day,  didn’t  exercise,  was  a 
little  overweight . . . Hearts  have  given  out  for  less.  Or 
maybe  it  was  an  accident;  maybe  he  got  smashed  at 
that  bad  junction  where  U.S.  30  joins  283. 

Whatever  had  happened,  I felt  sure  that  Larry 
was  dead.  So  it  surprised  the  hell  out  of  me  when,  the 
next  day,  there  was  nothing  in  the  paper  about  an  ex- 
pired copywriter  for  Maitland  Products,  Inc.  It  really 
threw  me  when  I walked  into  Al’s  party  Saturday 
night  and  there  was  Larry  with  his  wife,  puffing  on  a 
Marlboro  and  hoisting  a Schlitz,  his  five-foot-nine 
hundred-ninety-pound  fi*ame  looking  more  corporeal 
than  ever. 

“Kenny,”  he  slurred  at  me,  and  clapped  his 
cigarette  hand  on  my  neck,  dribbling  ashes  over  my 
shoulder,  “you  know  my  wife,  doncha?”  I smiled,  and 
she  managed  one  too,  a little  crookedly. 

“Excuse  me,”  I said,  “I’d  better  get  a drink.”  I 
wormed  my  way  to  the  bar  through  the  smoky,  boozy 
crowd  of  slogan  scribblers,  section  managers,  and 
commercial  artists,  poured  myself  three  fingers  of  Jim 
Beam,  and  thought  about  Larry’s  miraculous  resur- 
rection. 

What  the  hell  had  I seen?  Not  a ghost,  for  damn 
sure.  So  what  was  going  on?  A crack-up?  I didn’t  much 
care  for  my  work,  but  it  wasn’t  all  that  demanding, 
merely  a necessary  obeisance  to  Mammon  to  put  food 
on  the  table. 

Then  I saw  Walt  Barnes  maneuvering  his  way 
into  the  kitchen,  and  smiled  in  spite  of  my  worries.  His 
disapproving  frown  was  firmly  in  place  behind  a newly 
grown  beard  flecked  here  and  there  with  gray.  He 
noticed  me  and  gestured  toward  the  living  room, 
where  the  population  was  less  concentrated. 

When  we  got  there,  he  grinned.  “Another  com- 
mand performance  party,  eh?” 

I nodded.  “The  director’s  the  director.  Besides, 
I’d  rather  drink  his  stuff  than  yours.  He  can  afford  it.” 

He  laughed.  We  knew  that  neither  one  of  us  was 
offering  the  Gettys  any  competition.  I wondered  if  I 
should  tell  him  about  seeing  Larry’s  “ghost,”  but 


decided  I’d  rather  try  to  forget  the  whole  thing. 

“How’s  the  writing?”  he  asked. 

I raised  an  eyebrow.  “Fantasy  or  real?”  Fantasy 
was  company  work,  the  things  that  didn’t  matter.  Real 
meant  our  own  stuff  that  we  did  at  home,  over  lunch, 
or  during  office  hours  when  the  manager  was  away. 

We  talked  until  A1  and  Marie  came  over.  Walt 
quickly  drifted  out  the  door,  and  another  fifteen 
minutes  saw  me  slipping  back  to  my  apartment  and  a 
night  full  of  funny,  half-remembsred  dreams  about 
dead  people  and  typewriters  that  made  music  that 
sounded  like  symphonic  disco  played  through  Jello 
speakers.  I had  a headache  when  I woke  up. 

By  the  end  of  the  weekend  I had  nearly  forgot- 
ten about  Friday  night,  putting  it  down  to  tiredness  or 
job  dissatisfaction.  I arrived  lat(!  as  usual  Monday 
morning  and  waited  impatiently  for  the  elevator,  hop- 
ing that  A1  wouldn’t  step  off  it. 

Finally  the  door  slid  open  and  I entered.  Chuck 
Dieter  was  standing  at  the  back  of  the  car.  “Morning, 
Dieter,”  I said,  and  threw  on  a slightly  embarrassed 
and  harried  smile  that  I hoped  said  “caught  in  traffic.” 

Dieter  didn’t  reply.  He  might  have  nodded  in  my 
direction,  but  I wasn’t  sure.  He  was  still  standing  there 
expressionless  when  I got  off  at  the  sixth  floor. 

I scooted  down  the  hall  and  ;niade  it  to  my  office 
without  being  spotted,  then  began  the  normal  routine: 
turn  on  the  lights,  unlock  the  desk,  bullshit  with  Walt. 
He  was  in  his  office,  toying  with  the  script  for  a radio 
ad.  I asked  how  it  was  going. 

“Awful,”  he  answered.  “Somehow  I can’t  throw 
myself  into  the  shoes  of  a housev'^ife  whose  sole  con- 
cern is  how  to  make  her  silverware  sparkle  for  the 
bridge  club.”  He  leered.  “Maybe  I should  throw  myself 
into  her  panties.” 

I grinned.  “Talk  like  that  and  they’ll  shuffle  you 
back  to  the  halls  of  academe.” 

“Let  ’em,  ’ he  snorted.  “The  pay  was  crap,  but 
the  MLA  Journal  beats  hell  out  of  Advertising  Age.” 

I checked  my  watch.  “Almost  time  for  the 
Smooth  ’n  Soft  meeting.  You  going?” 

“It’s  delayed.” 

“Why?” 

“Dieter’s  out  this  week.” 

“Out?” 

“Vacation.” 

“But  I just  saw  him  on  the  elevator.”  I was  start- 
ing to  get  that  funny  feeling  again. 

Walt  frowned.  “Must  have  l^een  somebody  else. 
He  and  his  family  went  to  the  shcire  for  a week.” 

“Uh-uh.”  I shook  my  head  sharply.  “I  saw  him, 
Walt.” 

Walt  picked  up  the  phone  and  punched  three 
digits.  “Nan?  Walt.  Is  Dieter  in?  ...  Do  you  know 
when  they  left?  . . . Okay,  I’ll  get  to  him  next  week. 
Thanks.”  He  hung  up.  “Left  Sabarday  morning.  You 
still  think  you  saw  him?” 


I didn’t  know  what  to  say.  I was  as  certain  of  , ^ ^ 

having  seen  Chuck  Dieter  as  I’d  been  of  having  seen  ' her. 
Larry  Donaldson  on  Friday  night.  I felt  spooked  as  ' 


dividers  when  Wendy  McCormick  walked  past  in  the 
hall. 

It  had  happened  twice  before,  and  this  time  I 
almost  expected  it.  Not  for  a moment  did  I think  that 
the  physical  body  of  Wendy  McCormick  was  in  that  of- 
fice. But  I hoped  I would  find  out  what  the  hell  was 
there. 

I stepped  into  the  hall  and  saw  her  walking  slow- 
ly away  from  me.  I called  her  name  loudly,  command- 
ingly,  but  she  didn’t  stop.  I yelled  it,  then  hurried  after 


hell,  and  my  storriach  started  to  churn.  “No,”  I 
answered  softly.  “No,  I guess  not.” 

Walt  seized  the  chance  to  talk  about  “poor  old 
Dieter,”  who’d  been  a free-lancer  several  years  back. 
He’d  teken  a job  at  Maitland  after  his  first  novel  had 


She  looked  absolutely  real.  I can  remember 


everything  about  her  — her  dress  (a  nicely  tailored 
black  print  with,  so  help  me,  little  apples  on  it),  her 
jewelry  (gold  hoop  earrings,  small  engraved  gold 
locket),  her  complexion  (pale  as  a frozen  -corpse),  and 
her  reaction  on  seeing  me  (none  whatsoever).  'There 
hit  the  remainder  shelves  like  a bullet,  and  he  hadn’t ! was  no  doubt.  This  was  the  Wendy  McCormick  I knew 

j 1 . on-  1 • • TT  .11-11  ...i 


turned  out  a piece  of  fiction  since.  He  talked  about  it 
from  time  to  time,  but  all  that  came  out  of  his  type-  ' 
writer  was  copy. 

It  was  a pattern  I saw  over  and  over  again,  and  ; 
Walt  had  noticed  it  too.  “Big  Business  is  like  a pro- 
tective mother,”  he  said.  “Forget  all  the  obvious 
faults.  Its  real  danger  lies  in  what  it  considers  its  best  ■ 
quality— the  ability  to  provide  jobs.”  j 

I knew  what  was  coming.  “You  oughta  go  back  j 
to  teaching,  Walt.  You’d  get  that  need  to  lecture  out  of  I 
your  system.” 

“Goddammit,  I’m  serious.  When  Dieter  came  to  \ 
work  here,  he  was  bright,  eager,  creative  — ready  to  i 
sell  out,  sure,  but  maybe  he  could  sell  his  soul  by  day  ; 
and  buy  it  back  on  the  installment  plan  at  night  by  j 
writing.  Old  Big  Business  crushed  him  to  her  massive  ' 


tits  and  said,  ‘Here’s  money,  here’s  Blue  Cross,  here’s  i 
security!’  — and  he  grabbed  that  nipple  with  both  : 

hands.  But  it  didn’t  work  out  the  way  he’d  planned.  It ' work  past  five,  all  right?” 

Riifkpfl  him  rlrxf”  “This  doesn’t  have  anything  to  do  with  work. 


and  had  dated  and  even  slept  with  once  about  a year 
before,  but  when  I tried  to  grab  her  shoulder,  my  hand 
slipped  through  it. 

My  stomach  knotted  like  a fist.  I told  myself  that 
maybe  I’d  missed,  and  tried  to  grab  her  again. 
Nothing.  I’d  always  thought  grabbing  a ghost  would  be 
like  sticking  your  hand  in  cold  oatmeal,  but  this  was 
just  — nothing. 

She  walked  on  until  she  reached  her  office,  then 
sat  down  at  her  desk  and  simply  stared  straight  ahead 
into  the  darkness.  I turned  on  the  light,  but  there  was 
no  change. 

My  watch  read  ten-thirty,  and  I was  sure  Walt 
Barnes  would  still  be  awake.  I ran  back  to  my  office, 
called  him,  and  asked  him  to  come  down. 

“Jesus  Christ,  do  you  know  what  time  it  is?” 

“Yeah,  I know.  Can  you  come?” 

Look,  Ken,  I don’t  get  paid  overtime,  so  I don’t 


sucked  him  dry. 

“Hell,  Walt,  a lot  of  these  clowns  love  their  work,  j 
They  come  in  early,  they  leave  late,  they  find  creativity  i 
in  it.” 

“Maybe  so,  Ken,  but  I know  I’ve  only  got  so 
much  to  spread  around.  And  if  I give  it  all  to  Big 
Mama,  I won’t  have  any  left  for  me.  It  happened  to 
Dieter,  to  Donaldson . . . hell,  to  all  of  ’em.” 

I smiled.  “And  the  goblins’ll  get  you  if  you  don’t 


Not  directly,  anyway.” 

“Is  it  important?” 

“It’s  important  enough  that  I think  I’m  going  to 
go  crazy  if  you  don’t  get  down  here.” 

There  was  silence  on  his  end  for  a second.  Then 
he  said,  “Okay,  I’ll  be  down,”  and  hung  up. 

After  waiting  fifteen  minutes,  I decided  to  wait 
for  Walt  at  the  elevator.  As  I left  my  office,  I became 


watchout.”Helaughed,  and  I stood  up.  “I’d  better  get!  aware  of  a form  sitting  at  the  desk  in  the  office 


back  to  my  office.” 

“Offices,”  he  corrected.  I looked  at  him  curious- 
ly. “Holy  offices,”  he  explained.  “Got  to  take  this  work 
seriously.” 

■ took  it  very  seriously  Wednesday  night.  I was 
working  late  on  Femi-Dri,  a project  I knew  little 
and  cared  less  about,  and  I was  bored  and  angry.  It  ■ 
was  ten  o’clock,  and  I’d  just  about  decided  to  kick  my  : 
desk  in  and  write  filthy  words  all  over  the  glass  office  i 


diagonal  to  mine.  It  was  Charley  Landon,  big  as  life, 
staring  at  nothing.  I didn’t  need  to  touch  him. 


Wi 


'alt  arrived  just  after  eleven.  I knew  I was 
nervous,* but  when  the  elevator  doors  slid 
open  with  their  mechanical  whisper,  I felt 
every  hair  on  my  body  jump  to  attention. 

“This  had  better  be  good,”  he  announced  gruffly 
as  he  stepped  from  the  car. 

I told  him  everything.  I told  him  about  seeing 


63 


I'd  olwoys 
thought  ^ 
grabbing  o ghost 
would  be  like  sticking 
your  hand  in  cold 
oQtmeol,  but  this  wos  just 
^ nothing. 

Larry  that  first  night  and  Dieter  Monday  morning.  I 
told  him  about  Wendy  walking  in,  and  about  Charley 
sitting  like  a robot  in  his  darkened  office.  Then  I told 
him  about  putting  my  hand  through  Wendy,  and  he 
laughed. 

“You  asshole!  You  got  me  out  of  a hot  tub  for  a 
Shock  Theater  rerun?” 

“Walt,  listen  to  me,  I am  not  shitting  you!”  But 
his  face  still  wore  that  damnable  mask  of  academic 
cynicism.  “They  are  real!  They’re  in  there  right  now!” 

He  looked  at  me  as  thou^  I were  crazy.  “Okay,” 
he  nodded  at  last.  “Sure.  Let’s  go  see  them.” 

I followed  him  down  the  hall.  He  looked  fre- 
quently over  his  shoulder,  fearful,  no  doubt,  that  I’d  go 
for  his  jugular  with  my  teeth.  Then  he  stopped  cold  in 
front  of  Marty  Petrocelli’s  office.  “Christ,  Marty,”  he 
said,  “you  gave  me  a start!  What  are  you  doing  here?” 

I shouldered  Walt  aside.  Marty  was  sitting  at  his 
desk,  the  same  as  the  others.  Walt  spoke  again. 

“Marty?  Hey. . .”  He  turned  toward  me  suspi- 
ciously. “What  is  this,  Ken?” 

“Come  on,”  I said  as  I continued  down  the  hall. 

There  were  more  of  them  now.  Nearly  half  of  the 
small  offices  were  occupied  by  the  seated  forms  of  the 
people  I worked  with  every  day.  I was  nearly  at  Wen- 
dy’s office  when  Walt  caught  up  with  me.  His  complex- 
ion was  pale. 

“Ken,  what  the  hell  is  this?  Why  is  everybody 
here?  Is  this  a joke  or  what?” 

I pointed  into  Wendy’s  office.  “Ask  her.” 

Walt’s  temper,  never  long  in  abeyance,  flared. 
“You’re  damned  right  I will!  Wendy!”  he  shouted. 
“What’s  this  all  about?” 

There  was  no  answer.  “Wendy?”  The  voice 
shook. 

Nothing.  No  reply  at  all. 

“God  damn  it!”  he  yelled,  and  reached  for  her 
shoulder  to  swing  her  around.  His  hand  went  through 
her  and  he  lost  his  balance,  falling  against  the  desk  and 
knocking  over  a cup  of  yellow  pencils  that  clattered 
like  dry  bones  on  the  floor.  He  staggered  back,  making 
a sound  that  only  utter  astonishment  kept  from  being  a 
scream. 

Wendy’s  figure  hadn’t  moved.  Walt’s  eyes 
darted  from  her  to  me  to  her  like  a trapped  animal,  his 
mouth  trying  to  frame  a question  that  made  sense. 

I smiled  gently.  “Welcome  to  Shock  Theater." 


He  didn’t  laugh.  His  eyes  just  got  wilder. 

“Walt,”  I said  firmly,  “it’s  all  right.  I don’t  know 
what  they  are,  but  I don’t  think  they  even  know 
we’re  here.  They  can’t  hurt  us.  I'hey’re  like  . . . like 
shadows.” 

“Could  it—”  His  voice  was  pinched  with  fear. 
“Could  they  be,  uh,  projections?” 

I cocked  my  head. 

“Projections,”  he  went  on,  apparently  afraid  to 
take  his  eyes  off  the  Wendy-thing  for  too  long.  “A 
gag— a joke  done  with  projectors.” 

“In  every  office?  I don’t  know  how  or  why. 
Besides,  I’ve  seen  them  walking.  They  look  too  real  for 
projections.” 

Then  I touched  “Wendy”  again,  and  my  hand 
disappeared  into  her  body,  reappearing  when  I 
withdrew  it.  I heard  Walt’s  breathing  turn  ragged. 
“Jesus!”  he  stammered,  “Jesus  Christ,  don’t  do  that! 
Let’s  get  out  of  here.  Let’s  go  somewhere  and. . . and 
talk  about  this.  I can’t  stay  here  anymore!” 

I felt  funny  myself,  somewhere  between  hyster- 
ical laughter  and  the  dry  heaves.  I walked  into  the  hall, 
Walt  close  behind,  and  as  we  lieaded  toward  the 
elevators  we  saw  them.  Only  a few  offices  were  empty 
now,  and  in  all  the  rest  sat  the  images  of  their  workday 
occupants,  stDl  and  unmoving,  as  much  a part  of  the 
tableau  as  the  telephone,  the  In-Out  boxes,  and  the 
desk  calendars  all  faithfully  turned  to  dates  that  had  no 
meaning  in  that  timeless  night. 

The  cool  outside  air  was  like  a tingling  embrace 
that  welcomed  us  back  to  a world  full  of  life.  The  stars, 
moon,  and  city  lights  burned  brighter  and  cleaner  than 
the  white  incandescents  that  had  illuminated  the 
things  six  floors  above. 

We  walked  a few  blocks  to  Dornan’s.  Walt 
ordered  a double  Scotch,  I had  a bourbon,  and  both 
drinks  were  drained  within  a minute  of  their  arrival. 
We  were  halfway  through  a second  round  before  we 
started  talking  about  it. 

“Kenny,”  Walt  said,  staring  at  the  drink  he  held 
in  his  shaking  hands,  “what  were  they?” 

I just  shook  my  head. 

He  looked  at  me  sharply.  “What’s  the  matter 
with  you?  You  seem  . . . relieved!” 

“I  am  a little,”  I smiled.  “At  least  I know  I’m  not 
crazy,  now  that  you’ve  seen  them  too.” 

“But  what  were  they?”  he  pressed. 

“I’m  not  sure.  But  I’ve  beem  thinking.”  I took 
another  sip,  trying  to  make  sense  of  it  all.  “I  think 
maybe  it  has  something  to  do  with  what  we  talk  about 
all  the  time.  The  draining  effect  this  kind  of  jimk-work 
has.”  I stopped  again.  “Shit,  this  sounds  like  some 
paranoid  fantasy.” 

“No,”  Walt  said,  “it’s  no  fantasy.  Go  ahead.” 
His  hands,  cupped  around  the  glass,  seemed  to  be 
praying  that  I’d  bring  order  out  of  the  chaos  reality 
had  become. 


64 


I 

i 


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I 

i 

I . 
!■ 


I 


t 

i 

i 


“They’re  trapped,”  I said  softly.  “Everyone  we 
saw  is  a person  who’s  been  at  Maitland  and  seems  con- 
tent to  stay.  They  don’t  want  to  go  anywhere  else  or  do 
anything  else.  They’re  ready  to  give  up  and  play  the 
game  and  have  ‘Maitland  Retiree’  as  the  second  line  in 
their  obituary. 

“And  when  th(;y  gave  up,  when  they  accepted  it, 
they  lost  something.  Call  it— what’s  the  word— a Ka,  a 
piece  of  their  soul— their  creative  self,  maybe. 
Anyway,  something  is  trapped  in  that  building.”  I took 
a long  swallow,  not  knowing  if  I really  believed  what  I 
was  saying. 

“But  why  did  we  see  it?”  Walt  seemed  calmer 
now.  “Everybody  w'orks  late  at  times.  Why  hasn’t 
anyone  mentioned  it  before?” 

“I  don’t  know.  Maybe  it  takes  somebody  who 
still  wants  out  badly  enough  to  see  them.  Maybe  if 
you’re  already  trapped,  you  don’t  notice.”  I had 
another  thought.  “Maybe  they  only  show  up  when  the 
person’s  sleeping.  That  would  explain  why  I didn’t  see 
them  in  the  early  evening.” 

Walt  nodded.  “And  why  there  were  more  of 
them  the  later  we  stayed.”  He  stopped  suddenly.  “But 
what  about  Dieter?  You  saw  him  in  the  morning.” 

I wasn’t  sure.  “He  was  on  vacation.  Sleeping 
late,  maybe.” 

“But  he  showed  up  at  the  office  anyway.  Jesus,  I 
wonder  if  that’s  it.  V/hen  you’re  sleeping.” 

I didn’t  know.  It  didn’t  matter. 

We  sat  in  silence  finishing  our  drinks,  then 
ordered  more.  Finally  Walt  asked  the  question  I’d  been 
afraid  to. 

“What  do  we  do  about  it?” 

I looked  for  a long  time  at  the  translucent  pearls 
my  ice  cubes  had  become,  rolling  the  glass  in  my  hand 
so  that  they  moved  around  and  around  and  around  un- 
til the  warm  air  diminished  them  and  they  were  gone. 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” 

“What  Sundd  we  do?” 


I could  tell  that  Walt  didn’t  know  either.  “Jesus, 
Ken,  something . . . Maybe  the  police?” 

“And  tell  them  what?  Our  theories  aren’t  worth 
shit.  And  besides,  who  gives  a damn?  Not  our  spooky 
friends  up  there  — they  seem  very  content.  There’s 
something  else  too.” 

The  “something  else”  made  me  very  sad,  and  I 
dug  my  nails  into  my  palm  to  keep  from  getting  drunk- 
enly  weepy. 

“There’s  no  crime,”  I said.  “Whatever’s  going 
on  up  there,  and  in  a million  other  buildings  tonight, 
whatever  it  is,  it  isn’t  against  the  law.”  I took  a deep 
swallow,  but  it  didn’t  get  the  lump  out  of  my  throat. 
“You  can’t  steal  a guy’s  car,  or  his  money,  or  his  god- 
damn jockey-boy  lawn  ornament,  because  that’s 
against  the  law.  But  what  you  can  steal  . . . what  you 
can ...” 

I left  it  unspoken.  Walt  knew. 

Then  I laughed,  laughed  long  and  hard  until  the 
tears  came.  “And  there’s  another  reason  we  can’t  go 
to  the  cops.”  ' 

And  Walt  was  nodding  and  laughing  too,  and  the 
people  at  the  bar  and  the  fat  bartender  and  the  skinny 
waitress  with  the  dirty  white  tennis  shoes  all  looked  at 
us  and  heard  Walt  choke  out,  “Why  can’t  we?” 

And  they  heard  me  shout  back,  “Because  we’re 
drunk,  you  asshole!” 

And  we  were. 

I stayed  at  MaiMand  another  three  weeks. 
Neither  Walt  nor  I saw  anything  strange  after  that 
Wednesday  night.  I refused  to  stay  late;  I took  all  extra 
work  home  with  me.  Walt  talked  about  quitting,  but 
had  no  job  to  go  to  and  wasn’t  confident  enough  to  go 
free-lance. 

Neither  was  I,  but  I did  it  anyway.  Whether 
what  we’d  seen  in  the  office  was  real  or  a joint  hallu- 
cination, it  gave  me  the  excuse  to  get  out  of  something 
that  had  slowly  been  sapping  me  of  imagination, 
creativity  . . . joy.  The  day  I left  I told  Walt,  only  half 
jokingly,  to  watch  out  for  the  monsters.  He  smiled  and 
said  he  would. 

I ran  into  him  one  evening  several  months  later, 
and  we  hopped  into  Doman’s.  He  was  still  with 
Maitland,  had  gotten  a small  promotion,  and  had  even 
been  elected  captain  of  the  department’s  softball  team. 
He’d  been  working  late  that  night,  and  when  I asked 
him  if  he’d  seen  any  more  spooks,  he  said  he  hadn’t, 
not  a one. 

We  talked  for  a long  time  about  a lot  of  things, 
and  around  midnight  we  left  the  bar  and  said  goodbye, 
with  a promise  to  call  each  other  soon.  I watched  Walt 
walk  down  the  street,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
back  of  his  softball  team  jacket.  The  emblem  glowed 
softly  in  shining  red  and  gold  — a cartoon  death’s 
head,  and  underneath  it  the  legend  that  he,  as  captain, 
had  chosen:  “Maitland  ZomMes.” 

At  least  he  hadn’t  lost  his  sense  of  hximor.  ffl 

65 


d 


HIS  ROWS  OF  COLORED  BOTTLES  WERE  BEAUTIFUL  TO  LOOK  AT 
BUT  HOW  MANY  LIVES  HAD  HE  SQUEEZED  DRY  TO  FILL  THEM? 


During  those  rare  periods  of  tranquility 
following  the  disturbing  end  of  her  visits  to 
Ambrose  Cavender,  Prue  chose  to  believe  that 
from  the  moment  she  climbed,  squalling  and  fearful, 
from  her  cradle,  she  was  destined  to  find  her  way  to 
that  black-shuttered  town  house  on  the  upper  east  side 
of  Manhattan. 

Even  among  her  earliest  companions,  Prue  had 
acquired  the  reputation  of  being  a crybaby.  In  the 
small  Alabama  town  where  she’d  growm  up,  her  play- 
mates, discovering  how  easily  she  could  be  reduced  to 
tears,  had  made  her  the  victim  of  their  adolescent  ag- 
gressions, the  butt  of  their  practical  jokes,  gleefully 
deriding  her  emotional  reaction  to  crippled  cats  and 
broken  butterflies  and  the  soppily  romantic  movies 
that  would  provoke  them  to  scornful,  hooting  laughter. 
Although  Prue’s  excessive  sensitivity  endeared  her  to 
her  teachers  and  was  admired  by  those  of  the  older 
generation  who  regarded  it  as  a feminine  quality  all 
too  rare  among  her  contemporaries,  it  did  not  make 
her  popular  with  the  boys,  who,  even  in  college 
found  Prue’s  tendency  to  weepiness  more  tiresome 

66 


than  enchanting. 

With  the  exception  of  Tom,  that  is,  an  aspiring 
poet  strongly  attracted  by  Prue’s  big,  sad  eyes  in  her 
trifle-too-elongated  face,  and  who  chose  to  see  in  her 
highly  strung  and  overly  delicate  emotional  balance  a 
resemblance  to  Virginia  Woolf,  one  of  his  literary 
saints.  Prue  responded  to  Tom  even  more  profoundly, 
and  when  he  suddenly  broke  their  engagement  and 
switched  his  affections  to  a more  spirited  girl,  she  was 
plunged  into  a state  of  despondency  so  acute  and  pro- 
longed that  her  parents  felt  obliged  to  call  in  the  famUy 
doctor,  who  advised  a change  of  scene. 

So  Prue  arrived  in  New  "V  ork,  with  an  abim- 
dance  of  tear-stained  handkerchiefs,  to  stay  with  her 
old  school  friend  Gretchen.  It  seemed  at  first  a good 
idea,  Gretchen  being  a lively,  warm-hearted  girl,  as 
popular  in  New  York  as  she  had  been  back  home  in 
Plato  Switch,  Alabama,  and  even  prettier.  Six  months 
in  Manhattan  proved,  however,  that  Prue  had  done  no 
more  than  move  from  the  brink  of  despair  to  the  edge 
of  desperation,  and  after  a partic;ularly  hectic  day  at 
the  cosmetic  counter  of  the  department  store  where 


Illustration  by  E.T.  Steadman 


she’d  found  work,  she  suffered  a recurrence  of  that 
immobilizing  neurasthenia  that  had  afflicted  her  after 
her  breakup  with  Tom.  Gretchen  arrived  home  to  find 
her  friend  crying  over  the  spaghetti  sauce,  which 
refused  to  thicken. 

“More  paste  and  fewer  tears,  honey,”  said  Gret- 
chen. “Cheer  up.  I’m  eating  out,  anyway.  You  can 
come  with  us.” 

“No  thank  you.”  Prue  was  in  no  mood  to  sit 
tongue-tied  at  a table  between  scintillating  Gretchen 
and  one  of  her  ravishing  escorts. 

“But  Prue,  honey,  you  must  get  out  more. 
That’s  why  you  camie  to  New  York.  To  make  a fresh 
start.  Meet  someone!.” 

This  reminder  of  how  unsuccessful  the  doctor’s 
recommended  treatment  had  been  brought  on  a fresh 
torrent  of  tears.  “Sk  months,”  Prue  wailed,  “and  I’ve 
struck  out  with  eveiy  man  you’ve  thrown  at  me.  Not 
that  I can  blame  them.” 

“Now  stop  feeling  sorry  for  yourself,  honey. 
You’ve  got  to  learn  to  use  what  you’ve  got.” 

“Like  what?” 

“A  lot  of  things.  That— well,  that  soulful  look, 
for  instance.” 

This  only  brought  back  memories  of  Tom  and  his 
Virginia  Woolf  fixation.  Prue  continued  to  weep. 

“If  only  you  wouldn’t  cry  so  easily,  honey,” 
pleaded  Gretchen.  “Try  smiling  more  often.” 

That  weekend  Gretchen  fixed  her  up  with  a date 
with  Dickie,  a pal  of  Gretchen’s  current  flame.  Dickie 
had  wild  blue  eyes  and  was  part  owner  of  an  antique 
shop  on  Third  Avenue.  During  the  evening,  Dickie  told 
Prue  that  Gretchen  had  described  her  to  him  as  being 
“very  original,”  and  Prue  had  no  idea  what  to  do  or 
say  to  live  up  to  this;  dubious  recommendation.  When 
they  said  goodnight,  Dickie  did  not  ask  to  see  her 
again. 

At  home,  Prue  burst  into  tears.  “Why  did  you 
have  to  tell  him  that?” 

“Well,  honey,  our  class  did  vote  you  Most 
Original.” 

Even  then  Pnie  had  suspected  it  was  no  more 
than  a polite  euphemism  for  odd,  someone  who  didn’t 
fit  in,  a crank  or  weirdo.  Gretchen  only  laughed.  “It 
means  you’re  you,  silly.  Nobody  else.” 

“So  who  isn’t  original?” 

“Stick  around  New  York.  You’ll  find  out.” 

A few  days  lat«>r  Dickie  did  call  and  ask  Prue  for 
a date.  Prue  was  pleased,  but  wary.  She  accused  Gret- 
chen of  setting  it  up. 

“Don’t  be  dumb,”  said  Gretchen.  “He  likes 

you.” 

True  or  not,  Pme  quickly  decided  that  she  liked 
Dickie.  His  blue  eyes  reminded  her  of  Tom.  After  the 
third  date  she  told  Gretchen  that  she  was  in  love  with 
Dickie.  Gretchen  adwised  her  to  slow  down.  “Dickie’s  a 
charmer,  I agree.  But  what  he  wants  is  a good  time. 


Don’t  play  it  too  seriously.  Not  yet.” 

Prue  didn’t  listen.  She  decided  that  Gretchen 
was  only  jealous.  Dickie  was  ten  times  more  attractive 
than  that  vulgar  Jack  person  her  friend  had  been 
seeing. 

Yet  it  soon  became  clear  that  Gretchen  knew 
more  about  men  than  Prue  would  ever  know.  Dickie’s 
manner  grew  increasingly  remote  as  Prue,  hearing 
wedding  bells,  began  rhapsodizing  about  babies  and 
pets  and  plants  and  an  apartment  in  the  Village,  im- 
ages that  reduced  her  to  tears  of  joy,  but  which  did  not 
have  the  same  effect  on  Dickie.  He  broke  one  date  and 
then  twice  stood  her  up.  A difficult  month  ensued.  As 
Dickie’s  ardor  cooled,  Prue  became  desperate,  weepy, 
and  neurasthenic.  When  she  called  Dickie,  she  began 
blubbering.  When  she  went  to  his  apartment,  he  was 
always  on  his  way  to  an  important  appointment. 

Finally,  Gretchen  broke  the  news.  “You  may  as 
well  know,  honey.  I heard  it  from  Jack.  Dickie’s  seeing 
someone  else.” 

“I  don’t  believe  it!” 

“Honey,  I warned  you  not  to  get  serious.” 

This  news  inspired  one  of  Prue’s  worst  crying 
spells  since  she  had  arrived  in  New  York.  She  began  to 
brood.  She  couldn’t  sleep,  and  a mysterious  rash  ap- 
peared on  her  chin.  The  weather  only  aggravated  her 
condition.  Rain,  rain,  rain,  and  the  humidity  was 
paralyzing.  Prue  felt  stifled  in  the  apartment,  and  the 
only  pleasure  she  took  ]^y  in  endless,  solitary  walks 
which  invariably  took  her  past  Dickie’s  apartment, 
where  she  would  stand  across  the  street  in  the  rain 
hoping  for  a glimpse  of  him. 

Meanwhile,  the  slightest  incident  would  provoke 
tears.  It  was  even  worse  than  back  home.  To  glance  at 
a wretched  bag  woman  in  Central  Park,  to  see  a home- 
less cat  or  a drunk  wrapped  in  newspapers  and  ignored 
by  the  crowds  would  bring  on  fits  of  weeping.  Gret- 
chen urged  her  to  see  a psychiatrist,  but  Prue  resented 
this  and  they  had  their  first  serious  quarrel.  Prue 
would  have  moved  out  of  the  apartment— clearly,  Gret- 
chen would  not  have  objected— only  she  couldn’t  afford 
a place  of  her  own. 

At  this  low  point  in  her  life  occurred  the  fateful 
meeting  with  Ambrose  Cavender. 

One  rainy  afternoon,  coming  from  work,  Prue 
happened  to  be  standing  at  the  comer  of  Lexington 
and  Forty-ninth  Street,  waiting  for  the  light  to  change, 
when  she  saw  a stray  dog  run  over  by  a taxi.  The 
animal  lay  dead  almost  at  Prue’s  feet.  Instantly  she 
burst  out  crying,  and  found  herself  unable  to  stop.  She 
cried  so  hard  that  she  began  to  choke,  and  a man  put 
his  hand  on  her  shpulder  and  asked  if  she  was  all  right. 

She  glanced  at  the  man’s  face  under  the  black 
umbrella,  which  was  now  sheltering  her  as  well:  white 
hair  beautifully  groomed  above  a young  face;  wide-set 
blue  eyes,  bluer  even  than  Dickie’s,  and  full  of  sym- 
pathetic concern. 


*7 


e Tear  Collector 


rrE 


“I’m  so  sorry  about  your  dog,’’  he  said.  “May  I 
help?” 

Between  sobs  she  managed  to  explain  that  the 
dog  was  not  hers,  it  was  just  so  awful  that  it  lay  dead  at 
the  curb  and  no  one  cared.  “No  one  cares,  no  one 
cares,”  she  kept  repeating  foolishly,  and  she  knew  that 
it  was  not  just  the  dog  but  everjdhing  that  had  hap- 
pened or  hadn’t  happened  in  her  life  that  brought  on 
the  convulsion  of  tears. 

“Forgive  me,  but  do  you  always  cry  so  easily?” 
the  stranger  asked  her,  and  she  was  too  distraught  to 
find  anything  peculiar  in  the  question. 

“I  can’t  help  it,”  she  moaned.  “It’s  all  so  awful. 
No  one  cares,  no  one  cares.” 

“I  care,”  said  the  man.  “Here.  Take  my  card. 
Please  come  and  see  me.” 

Before  she  could  do  more  than  accept  the  card 
he’d  thrust  in  her  hand,  a limousine  drew  up  to  the 
curb;  the  man  folded  his  umbrella,  gave  Prue’s  arm  a 
gentle  squeeze,  and  stepped  into  the  car. 

When  Prue  arrived  home  Gretchen,  on  the 
phone,  looked  annoyed  to  see  ner. 

“Just  ignore  me,”  Prue  snapped,  her  nerves  in 
shreds.  “I’m  beginning  to  feel  like  I’m  in  the  way 
around  here.” 

“Oh,  Prue,  you  silly  goose!  And  look  at  you. 
You’re  soaked.  I’ll  run  you  a nice  hot  bath.” 

“Good.  Maybe  I’ll  be  lucky  and  drown.” 

Indeed,  she  felt  half-drowned  already,  in  the 
endless  rain,  in  her  own  tears,  in  the  morass  of  lone- 
liness which  Gretchen’ s changeless  good  humor 
rendered  all  the  more  painfully  isolating. 

Prue  came  out  of  the  bath  to  find  Gretchen  put- 
ting on  a pair  of  glittery  earrings.  “Going  out,  I see. 
With  Jack?” 

“That  boor?  Never  again.  I can  do  better  than 

that.” 

Left  alone  in  the  apartment,  Prue  relapsed  into  a 
mood  of  sulky,  morbid  despondency,  finally  taking  to 
her  bed  in  hopes  of  sleeping  away  the  dull  ache  of  dis- 
content. She  thought  about  the  dog  incident  and  about 
the  white-haired  stranger,  with  his  air  of  young-old 
distinction  and  melting  blue  eyes.  But  blue  eyes  made 
her  think  of  Dickie,  and  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

The  following  day  was  truly  murderous.  Her 
nerves  were  so  inflamed  that  she  actually  shook  when 
she  tried  to  demonstrate  cosmetics,  and  just  as  her 
supervisor  approached  the  counter  to  speak  to  her, 
Prue  dropped  and  broke  a bottle  of  Joy,  one  of  their 
costliest  perfumes.  That  spelled  the  end  of  her  job  at 
the  department  store. 

She  tried  to  make  a joke  of  it  when  she  told  Gret- 
chen what  had  happened.  “That’s  me.  Can’t  even  han- 
dle joy  in  a bottle.” 

“Honey,  maybe  it’s  a sign  or  something.  Maybe 
you’d  be  happier  if  you  went  back  home.” 

But  knowing  there  were  even  fewer  chances— 

6S 


either  for  romance  or  employment— in  Plato  Switch, 
Prue  vetoed  this  idea,  even  though  she  knew  that 
Gretchen  was  probably  dying  to  gfit  rid  of  her. 

Prue  went  out  next  morning  intending  to  look 
for  another  job,  but  instead  found  herself  walking  up 
Fifth  Avenue  and  turning  east,  not  into  the  street 
where  Dickie  lived  but  toward  the  address  on  the  card 
the  white-haired  gentleman  had  g^iven  her,  the  card 
that  read  Ambrose  Cavender:  Collector.  Presently  she 
was  mounting  the  steps  of  an  elegant  red-brick  town 
house  with  gleaming  black  shutters. 

A smooth-faced  Chinese  boy  in  a white  jacket 
opened  the  door.  Prue  mutely  extended  the  card.  “He 
said  I should  come.” 

The  Chinese  boy  led  her  across  the  hall  into  a 
book-lined  study,  where  at  length  Ambrose  Cavender 
joined  her.  She  saw  now  that  he  was  exceedingly  hand- 
some, a truly  striking  figure  in  his  saffron-colored 
smoking  jacket  and  crisp  white  shirt.  His  manners 
were  equally  perfect,  and  the  embarrassment  she 
would  have  felt  had  he  not  even  remembered  her 
melted  at  once  under  the  encouraging  warmth  of  his 
smile. 

As  she  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  Prue  did 
what  she  always  did  when  gripped  by  some  unexpected 
emotion,  in  this  case  the  pleasure  of  not  being  re- 
buffed. She  cried. 

“I’m  sorry.  I—  ” 

Ambrose  gave  her  hand  a c[uick  squeeze  as  he 
offered  her  a silk  handkerchief  from  his  pocket. 
“My  dear  girl,  one  must  never  ajiologize  for  tears.” 
Whereupon  he  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  buttoned 
leather  sofa  and  waited  patiently  for  her  to  compose 
herself. 

“Ah,  thank  you,  Jimmy,”  he  said  as  the  Chinese 
boy  padded  into  the  room  with  a tray.  “Some  sherry, 
my  dear.  It  will  settle  your  nerves.” 

She  sipped  the  sherry,  and  before  she  quite  knew 
how  it  had  happened,  she  was  telling  Ambrose  all 
.about  Tom  and  Dickie  and  the  aimless  despair  that  had 
turned  her  life  into  an  endless  misery. 

“Oh,  I know  what  Gretchen  thinks.  What  they 
all  think.  But  I don’t  want  doctors.  I don’t  want  pills.  I 
want—  I want—” 

“You  want  to  cry,”  said  Ambrose  with  the  most 
disarming  sweet  simplicity,  and  as  she  looked  into  his 
blue  eyes  she  knew  that  he  was  ]*ight  and  moreover 
that  he,  unlike  everybody  else,  thought  it  the  most 
natural  and  proper  thing  in  the  world  to  cry  when  you 
felt  like  crying,  no  matter  how  often.  She  therefore 
made  no  attempt  to  stifle  her  tears,  but  released  the 
flood  with  no  sense  of  weakness  or  shame  or  of  doing 
something  socially  obnoxious.  Nor  did  she  recoil  in 
alarm  when  Ambrose  proceeded  to  do  a most  extra- 
ordinary thing:  from  the  tray  he  took  up  a curious 
narrow-necked  crystal  vessel  shaped  like  a swan  and 
held  its  delicate  spout  to  her  cheek  just  at  the  comer  of 


her  left  eye,  supporting  her  around  her  shoulders  with 
his  other  arm.  The  glass  felt  cool  against  her  flushed 
skin. 

Presently  he  held  the  vessel  up  to  the  light,  and 
she  saw  in  its  fragile  bowl  the  salty  essence  of  her 
despair. 

“Tears  are  more  precious  than  blood,”  mur- 
mured Ambrose.  “One  ought  not  to  waste  them.” 

Prue  felt  a floating  sense  of  utter  peacefulness 
as  she  rested  her  head  against  the  cool  leather  of  the 
sofa  and  shut  her  eyes.  Was  it  the  wine,  she  wondered 
blissfully,  or  the  hyjonotic  effect  of  Ambrose’s  person- 
ality, that  subtle  combination  of  sweetness  and 
strength  and  total  understanding?  Or  maybe  the 
others  were  right,  she  thought.  Maybe  she  was  losing 
touch  with  reality  altogether. 

“Pm  so  sorry,  my  dear,”  said  Ambrose.  “I  must 
go  out.  But  please  call  me  and  come  again  soon.  We’ll 
have  more  time.”  He  spoke  with  a faint  air  of  pleasur- 
able distraction  as  he  gazed  into  the  crystal  swan’s  bel- 
ly half-filled  with  Prue’s  tears. 

“You  really  want  me  to  come  again?”  It  was  the 
first  ray  of  light  in  a dark  room  she  had  thought  never 
to  leave. 

“I  should  be  most  distressed  if  you  did  not.  You 
cry  beautifully.” 

With  that  exti-aordinary  remark  he  put  into  her 
hand  a crisp  hundre<i-dollar  bill  and  rang  for  Jimmy  to 
show  her  out.  As  she  paused  on  the  sidewalk  to  open 
her  umbrella,  she  glanced  up  at  the  window  and  saw 
Ambrose’s  face,  ghostly  and  smiling,  behind  the  rain- 
streaked  pane. 

Walking  home  through  the  wet  streets,  she  was 
astonished  to  observe  that  everything  seemed  to  have 
: acquired  a pale  rose  cast  of  light:  the  trees  in  the  park, 
i the  people’s  faces,  her  own  reflection  in  the  store 
windows. 

Prue  said  nothing  to  Gretchen  about  her  visit  to 
I Ambrose;  in  fact,  she  was  asleep  when  Gretchen 
i returned,  the  first  night  in  months  that  Prue  had  slept 
I soundly.  | 

She  had  intended  to  spend  the  following  day  job  \ 
hunting,  but  with  the  hundred-dollar  bill  in  her  j 
bag  she  decided  it  would  be  more  fun  simply  to 
wander,  window  shop,  think  about  the  visit  to 
Ambrose.  Yet  gradually  the  noises  of  the  city  obtruded, 
and  she  began  to  feel  the  telltale  splintering  of  nerves 
that,  ever  since  childhood,  had  seemed  unprotected  by 
more  than  the  thinnest  of  skins  against  the  bruising  im- 
pact of  unpleasant  sights  and  sounds.  She  fled,  as  if  for 
shelter  from  a derelict’s  haunted  features  and  the  rude 
c^  of  a taxi  driver,  into  the  nearest  phone  booth  and 
dialed  the  number  on  Ambrose’s  card. 

“No,  of  course  it’s  not  too  soon,”  he  assured  her 
soothingly.  “As  it  happens.  I’m  quite  free.  Do  come 
by.” 


“Tears  are  more  precious 
than  blood,” 
murmured  Ambrose. 
“One  ought  not  to 
waste  them.” 


The  previous  day’s  ritual  was  repeated.  He 
urged  her  to  talk  about  all  those  unhappy  events  that 
had  infected  her  soul  with  its  chronic  melancholy,  and 
instead  of  responding  with  a lot  of  jargon  about  ego 
depletion,  he  encouraged  the  tears  to  flow  and  once 
more  collected  them  in  the  swan-shaped  vessel. 

Afterwards,  sipping  wine  together,  he  told  Prue 
that  he  had  always  been  a collector,  at  first  of  the  more 
conventional  artifacts:  gems,  sculpture,  fine  art.  He 
had  cultivated  a special  interest  in  Roman  antiquities 
and  had  assembled  the  world’s  finest  collection  of 
lachrymatories. 

“Tear  vases,”  he  explained.  “It  used  to  be 
thought  that  they  held  the  tears  of  the  bereaved. 
Perhaps  they  did.  But  one  can  find  so  few  of  them.  This 
one,  of  crystal,  happens  to  be  Persian  and  very  rare. 
At  any  rate,  my  dear,  I finally  discovered  my  true  forte 
as  a collector  by  way  of  this  interest.  I began,  you  see, 
to  collect  tears.” 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  conducted  her  to  a 
room  with  a skylight  at  the  end  of  a statue-lined 
passage,  where  on  glass  shelves  reposed  row  upon  row 
of  delicate,  transparent  vessels  in  a variety  of  exquisite 
colors,  from  the  palest  champagne  to  the  deepest  ruby. 

“They’re  specially'made  for  me  in  Venice.  Their 
colors  are  their  only  labels.  At  a glance  I can  identify 
from  memory  the  subjects  whose  tears  are  contained 
in  each.”  From  an  Oriental  lacquerwork  cabinet  he 
took  out  a glass  container  of  a pale  lavender  hue,  and 
from  the  crystal  swan  holding  Prue’s  tears  he  emptied 
them  into  the  new  container,  which  he  then  placed 
upon  one  of  the  shelves. 

“Lavender  tears,”  murmured  Prue.  “How  very 
origmal.”  And  for  the  first  time  in  months  she  laugh- 
ed, if  with  a certain  brittle  irony. 

“So  far  as  I know,”  said  Ambrose,  “I’m  the  only 
man  in  the  world  who  collects  tears.” 

To  Prue,  Ambrose  himself  seemed  quite  as 
unique  as  his  hobby.  “But  tears  aren’t  rare,”  she 
observed. 

“Ah,  but  they  are.  You’ve  no  idea  how  difficult  it 
is  even  in  this  city,  where  there  is  much  to  weep  about, 
to  find  anyone  who  cries  as  easily  and  copiously  as  you, 
my  dear.  We’ve  all  been  taught  to  regard  the  shedding 
of  tears  as  a sign  of  weakness  and  unstable  tempera- 
ment. If  one  cries  too  frequently,  one  is  rushed  off  to  a 
psychiatrist  who  prescribes  drugs  to  alter  the  moods. 
A wicked  practice,  in  my  opinion.” 

“I  know,”  agreed  Prue.  “That’s  what  they’re 
always  trying  to  do  to  me.” 

Ambrose  smiled.  “I  daresay  I found  you  just  in 
time.” 


69 


The  Tear  Collector 


He  grew  eloquent  upon  the  beauty  of  tears, 
ranging  from  the  clinical  to  the  poetic  in  a speech  that 
held  Prue  enthralled.  She  had  no  idea  the  subject  could 
be  so  fascinating.  How  lovingly  Ambrose  described  the 
lacrimal  apparatus,  the  glands  and  fine  ducts,  the 
canals  and  conjunctiva,  explaining  the  intricate  pro- 
cess by  which  tears  are  shed. 

“Few  people  realize  it,  my  dear  Prudence,  but 
we  are  all  constantly  crying,  only  the  discharge  is  so 
minimal  we  aren’t  aware  of  it.  You  might  remind  them 
of  that  when  they  scold  you.”  He  talked  about  the 
chemical  nature  of  tears,  about  proteins  and  enzymes, 
about  the  tears  that  are  formed  during  sleep.  He 
touched  upon  the  literature  of  tears,  quoted  Keats  and 
Tennyson,  and  declared  the  most  moving  passage  in 
the  Scriptures  to  be  the  simple,  “Jesus  wept.”  He 
served  her  a Neapolitan  wine  called  Lachryma  Christi 
and,  at  the  end  of  the  visit,  sent  her  away  with  another 
hundred-dollar  bill. 

Prue  couldn’t  resist  telling  Gretchen  about  Am- 
brose, and  was  dismayed  by  Ijpr  friend’s  alarm: 

“Are  you  out  of  your  mind,  Prue,  honey?  A guy 
hands  you  a card  on  the  street,  you  don’t  go  waltzing 
off  to  his  house.  Good  gracious,  you  might  have  been 
raped,  murdered,  and  no  one  would  ever  know.” 

“Or  care,”  said  Prue. 

“Honey,  this  town’s  crawling  with  kinky  weird- 
os. This  Ambrose  character  sounds  like  a certified 
loony.” 

Prue  merely  smiled.  “Can’t  you  bear  to  see  me 
happy  for  a change?” 

“Happy?  Is  that  what  you  are?” 

She  was.  At  least  when  she  was  with  Ambrose. 
Who  could  have  dreamed  such  pleasure  could  be  found 
in  dredging  up  all  the  wretched  circumstances  of  her 
life,  dwelling  upon  each  gloomy  detail  until  she  was 
convulsed  with  tears?  She  lived  only  for  the  visits  to 
Ambrose— and  why  look  for  a job  when  he  kept 
showering  her  with  hundred-dollar  bills? 

And  then  one  day,  drained  of  tears  while  the  sky 
continued  to  weep  beyond  the  black-shuttered  win- 
dows, Prue  reclined  with  her  head  upon  the  back  of  the 
sofa  in  Ambrose’s  study,  and  she  happened  to  notice 
how  the  light  from  the  tear-drop  chandelier  picked  out 
the  pale,  fine  hairs  along  Ambrose’s  wrist  as  he  handed 
her  a goblet  of  wine,  and  how  that  same  light  raked  his 
cheekbone  in  such  a way  that  his  splendid  eyes  lay 
purple-shadowed  beneath  silky  thick  lashes;  and  some- 
thing touched  her,  achingly  reminiscent  of  how  she  had 
felt  when  Tom  kissed  her  and  Dickie  had  looked  at  her 
with  his  wild  blue  eyes. 

I am  in  love  with  Ambrose,  she  thought.  This 
sudden  knowledge  filled  her  with  such  an  excess  of 
bliss  that  she  surrendered  to  an  onslaught  of  tears  so 
unexpected  her  delighted  companion  scarcely  had  time 
to  reach  for  the  crystal  lachrymatory. 

Her  subsequent  visit  foreshadowed  a difficulty 


she  had  not  anticipated.  Tiy  as  she  might,  she  could 
squeeze  out  only  a few  meager  drops.  Nothing  seemed 
to  inspire  her.  The  treachery  of  former  lovers  seemed 
merely  banal  and  amusing,  and  she  could  hardly  recall 
what  it  had  felt  like  to  suffer  the  desperation  of  lone 
liness  and  the  pain  of  betrayal.  Ambrose  regarded  her 
with  a wistful  sigh. 

Gathering  her  courage,  she;  whispered  softly: 
“Perhaps  if  you  kissed  me?” 

Although  the  pressure  of  yi.mbrose’s  lips  con- 
veyed not  an  ounce  of  passion  the  thrill  brought  forth  a 
gusher  of  tears. 

/ love  you,  I love  you,  I love  you,  she  murmured, 
but  only  to  herself. 

The  next  visit  proved  a disaster.  She  was  too 
happy  to  shed  a single  droplet,  and  even  when  Am- 
brose kissed  her,  all  she  felt  was  an  overwhelming 
euphoria  too  magical  for  tears. 

“I’m  afraid  I’m  all  cried  out,”  she  confessed 
brightly,  and  was  unprepared  for  Ambrose’s  reaction: 

“Perhaps  if  we  discontinued  our  visits  for  the 
time  being,”  he  suggested,  and  sht;  looked  at  him  with 
sudden  terror. 

“No,  no,  I couldn’t  bear  that.  I can  bear  any- 
thing but  not  seeing  you.”  Such  a prospect  was  so 
dreadful  that  it  actually  paralyzed  the  lachrymal  ap- 
paratus. In  desperation  she  cried  out:  “Pinch  me!” 

“My  dear?” 

“Pinch  me,  Ambrose.  Pinch  me  hard!” 

“Oh,  but  really,  my  dear,  I couldn’t  dream  of  do- 
ing anything  so  cruel.” 

“You  must.  Please.  I want  to  cry  for  you.” 

Ambrose  regarded  her  with  his  sad,  compas- 
sionate eyes.  With  a sigh  he  moved  to  the  fireplace  and 
touched  the  bell  rope.  The  Chinese  boy  appeared  at  the 
door. 

“Er— Jimmy,”  said  Ambrose,  “I  wonder  if  you 
would  kindly  oblige  us.”  He  e>plained  what  was 
required. 

Jimmy  obliged.  Prue  wept. 

Thereafter,  the  visits  took  on  a different,  more 
sinister  character,  but  the  important  thing, 
the  only  thing  that  matter(;d  to  Prue,  was  that 
they  continued. 

“You  look  frightful,  Prue,  honey,”  Gretchen 

said. 

“I’ve  never  felt  better.” 

“Sweetie,  I’ve  got  eyes.” 

“Don’t  start  that  again.  I’m  not  sick  and  I’m  not 
going  home.” 

“Prue,  you  worry  me.  It’s  that  dreadful  man, 
isn’t  it?  You’re  still  seeing  him.” 

“I  love  him!” 

“Oh,  Prue ...” 

“I  love  him  and  he  loves  me,” 

“Has  he  said  so?” 


70 


The  quarrel  grew  heated  and  ended  with  Prue 
packing  her  bags  and  storming  out  of  the  apartment. 
She  moved  to  a shabby  residential  hotel  and  continued 
her  visits  to  Ambrost;.  She  heard  from  Gretchen  only 
once,  by  phone. 

“Prue?  Are  you  all  right?” 

“Just  dandy.” 

“You  sound  funny.” 

“Pm  fine.  Goodbye.” 

“Prue,  don’t  hang  up.  Are  you  still  seeing 
what’s-his-name?” 

“Fve  just  come  from  him.” 

“But  your  voice  sounds  so  strange.” 

“Bad  tooth.” 

“Have  you  seen  a dentist?” 

Prue  hung  up,  then  turned  painfully  on  her  side 
and  watched  the  long  tears  of  condensation  form  on 
the  grimy  windowpane.  She  thought  of  her  life  before 
she  had  met  Ambrose,  and  the  memory  of  its  gray 
emptiness  oppressed  her.  She  knew  she  would  rather 
die  than  not  go  on  seeing  him.  At  other  times— and  oh, 
this  was  the  scariest  thought  of  all— she  wondered  if 
Ambrose  really  existed,  or  if  he  might  be  a creature  of 
her  diseased  imaginauon.  But  if  this  were  true,  how 
and  where  did  she  get  the  bruises  discoloring  her  skin, 
and  who  if  not  Ambrose  had  given  her  those  hundred- 
dollar  bills? 

Without  the  money  he  gave  her,  she  would  not 
have  been  able  to  afford  cab  fare,  and  she  would  never 
have  been  able  now  to  walk  all  the  way  to  the  town 
house.  Then  one  day,  as  she  was  preparing  to  leave, 
Ambrose  uttered  the  terrible  words; 

“I’m  sorry,  dear'  Prudence,  but  I shall  not  be  able 
to  see  you  again.  Sur<3ly  you  must  understand.” 

“Not  see  me?  Oh,  but  you  must!  I couldn’t  live 
without  seeing  you.  I love  you,  Ambrose!” 

At  this  declaration  Ambrose  himself  seemed 
about  to  cry.  “You  mustn’t  say  that,  my  dear.  I’ve  per- 
mitted it  to  go  on  far  i;oo  long  as  it  is.  Far  longer  than 
with  anyone  else.” 

She  pled,  she  implored,  she  wept,  but  now  even 
her.  tears  could  not  move  him  to  relent,  and  as  at  last 
she  made  her  way  to  the  door  alone,  she  heard  voices  in 
the  study.  She  stole  to  the  door  and  peeked  in.  Jimmy 
was  showing  a young  woman  to  the  sofa.  She  was  pale 


and  blond  and  her  eyes  were  red  from  weeping. 

Overcome  with  jealous  rage,  Prue  hobbled  into 
the  passage  leading  to  the  skylit  gallery,  where  she 
took  down  the  lavender-tinted  vessel  holding  the  ac- 
cumulation of  her  tears  and  saw  that  it  was  full.  Was 
that  the  reason  Ambrose  was  now  abandoning  her? 
She  gazed  at  the  containers  ranged  upon  the  shelves 
and  thought  of  all  those  other  malcontents  who  must 
have  cried  themselves  dry  to  satisfy  the  crazed  whim  of 
a man  whom  she  now  saw  not  as  a savior  but  as  some 
vampirelike  creature  who  battened  upon  the  tears  of 
the  innocent  rather  than  upon  their  blood.  Concealing 
the  vessel  in  her  handbag,  she  fled  from  the  house. 

Now  the  rain  was  mixed  with  sleet.  Unmindful 
of  its  needling  discomfort,  she  stood  miserably 
upon  the  sidewalk,  realizing  that  even  if  she 
could  find  a taxi,  she  had  no  money  to  pay  for  one. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  knew  that  it  didn’t  matter. 
Nothing  mattered  anymore,  and  with  instant  resolve 
she  started  walking,  not  toward  Fifth  Avenue  but  in 
the  opposite  direction,  toward  the  river. 

Oblivious  of  the  sleety  rain,  of  the  windows  and 
the  passersby,  she  responded  with  no  more  than  a 
slight  twitch  of  annoyance  as  a car  screeched  its 
brakes,  narrowly  avoiding  her  as  she  crossed  the  street 
without  heed  to  the  traffic.  Nor  was  she  even  vaguely 
aware  of  the  shabbily  clad  youth  who  had  been  dogging 
her  steps  for  the  last  block  and  a half.  Even  when  he 
caught  up  with  her,  brushing  against  her  body,  she  was 
unconscious  of  what  was  happening  until  she  felt  her 
handbag  snatched  roughly  from  her  grasp. 

Dazed,  she  stood  helplessly  watching  as  the 
youth  dashed  across  the  street  and  vanished  behind  the 
line  of  traffic. 

“You  all  right,  miss?” 

Prue  turned  her  head  to  look  up  at  the  man  who 
had  appeared  at  her  side,  his  hand  gently  supporting 
her  arm  as  if  he  feared  she  might  be  about  to  collapse. 

“I  saw  what  happened,”  he  said.  “He  didn’t  hurt 
you,  did  he?” 

Prue  shook  her  head.  “No  ...  no.  I’m  all  right.” 
He  looked  around.  “Not  a cop  in  sight,  of  course. 
Was  there  much  money  in  your  bag?” 

“Money?  No.  No  money.”  And  then,  thinking  of 
what  the  youth  had  stolen,  she  felt  -a  wild  urge  to 
laugh.  “He  stole  my  tears.  'That’s  all  he  got.  Only  my 
tears.” 

The  man’s  look  of  dismay  amused  her,  but  then 
her  laughter  subsided  as  she  gazed  into  his  face.  How 
extraordinary!  Such  very  blue  eyes.  Bluer  than  Am- 
brose’s. Bluer  even=^han  Dickie’s. 

The  stranger  still  held  her  by  the  arm  and  now, 
as  he  spoke,  he  very  gently,  almost  caressingly,  in- 
creased the  pressure  of  his  hand. 

“My  dear,  has  anyone  ever  told  you  that  you 
laugh  divinely?”  fg 


71 


The  (jreat  Elvis  Tresley  L< 


THERE  WERE  DOZENS  AND  DOZENS  OF  SUSPECTS  - 
ALL  OF  THEM  SPORTING  SIDEBURNS  AND  GUITARS! 


Terby  sighed.  Up  until  the  call  came,  he’d  been 
half  hoping  that  maybe  they  were  going  to 
-B-  get  a break.  The  streets  were  a relentless 
oven,  the  mercury  was  in  the  high  eighties,  and  the 
humidity  hung  around  seventy  percent.  In  those  con- 
ditions, not  even  a cop  should  have  to  work. 

The  loitering  sidewalk  punks  looked  too 
drained  to  do  anything  but  suck  on  their  brown- 
bagged  beers  and  pray  for  a thunderstorm.  If  it  had 
been  a few  degrees  cooler,  the  air  might  have  been 
bad  with  tension;  hotter,  and  the  pushed-too-far  could 
explode  and  hack  up  their  families.  As  it  was,  the  city 
remained  inert  and  sweating. 

It  had  been  shaping  up  as  a comparatively  easy 
shift,  but  then  the  homicide  had  been  dumped  into 
their  laps.  Yerby’s  partner  Max  swore  quietly  and  cut 
in  the  siren  and  lights.  Heads  turned,  sullen  and 
lethargic,  as  they  screamed  past. 

The  homicide  sounded  like  an  odd  one,  possibly 
messy  and  probably  complicated— the  kind  that  took 


time.  Yerby’s  years  of  experience  told  him  that  an  ice 
pick  stabbing  during  a show  at  some  run-down  flea- 
bag theater  probably  wasn’t  going  to  be  simple. 
Theaters  tended  to  mean  high  levels  of  hysteria,  and 
poor  theaters  meant  people  with  little  else  but  hys- 
teria to  offer. 

The  car  squealed  as  Max  swung  it  into  a tight 
right-hand  turn.  They  passed  the  red,  white,  and 
blue  neon  cocktail  glass  on  the  front  of  Paul’s  Bar  & 
Grill.  Yerby  wished  that  he  was.  inside  with  a cold 
pitcher  and  Willie  Nelson  on  the  jukebox,  instead  of 
chasing  across  a baking  city  to  a murder  at  the  De- 
Quincey.  The  place  should  have  been  torn  down  years 
ago.  Only  the  general  poverty  of  the  surrounding 
neighborhood  had  saved  it  from  the  wrecking  ball. 
Nobody  wanted  to  invest  in  that  section  of  the  city. 

The  sign  on  the  marquee  read  The  Great  Elvis 
Presley  Look-Alike  Contest. 

Max  grunted  in  disbelief-  “What  the  hell  is 
that  supposed  to  mean?” 


72 


k^likeTMurder  ^Mystery 

by  TVIick  Tarren 

Yerby’s  shirt  was  sticking  to  his  body.  Wearily  neglected  cool  of  a place  where  the  sun  never 
he  shook  his  head.  penetrates. 

“Who  knows.”  But  Yerby  had  no  time  to  savor  the  relief.  The 

There  were  already  three  blue-and-whites  on  backstage  area  of  the  DeQuincey  was  filled  with 
the  scene,  parked  in  the  haphazard  fashion  of  cops  in  grotesques,  figures  out  of  some  burned-out  amphe- 
a hurry.  The  lazy  turning  of  their  red  flashers  tamine-rocker’s  nightmare.  Easily  half  the  backstage 
seemed  to  accentuate  the  heat.  A small,  idly  curious  group,  the  ones  who’d  been  herded  together  by  the 
crowd  had  gathered  and  was  being  kept  out  of  harm’s  fu’st  officers  to  arrive  on  the  scene,  were  dressed  in 
way  by  a bunch  of  uniforms.  More  cops  were  blocking  some  approximation  of  an  Elvis  Presley  outfit, 
the  theater’s  exits  and  entrances.  They  came  in  all  shapes  and  sizes.  Yerby 

Yerby  clipped  his  badge  onto  the  front  of  his  couldn’t  remember  when  he’d  been  as  close  to  so 
limp  shirt  and  pushed  his  way  through  to  the  stage  much  tight  leather,  such  tonnage  of  sequins,  so  many 
door.  In  situations  like  this  he  was  apt  to  confront  the  stand-up  collars  and  pairs  of  triangular  sideburns  as- 
world  with  a supreme  sense  of  his  own  importance;  sembled  in  one  place.  It  didn’t  seem  to  bother  these 
he  was,  after  all,  supposed  to  be  an  expert.  Yerby  characters  that  most  of  them  bore  not  the  slightest 
had  been  a cop  for  thirteen  years.  He’d  spent  the  last  resemblance  to  the  original.  Some  were  quite  pre- 
five  as  a homicide  detective.  pared  to  stretch  credibility  to  the  outer  limits. 

Inside  the  theater,  it  was  cooler  than  the  Among  the  crowd  were  a black  Elvis,  a Japanese  El- 
street.  It  wasn’t  the  aggressive  chill  of  a modern  vis,  and  even  a woman.  She  wore  greased-back  hair 
air-conditioned  building— more  the  musty,  dusty,  and  a pink  zoot  suit. 


73 


Elvis 


“So  this  is  an  Elvis  Presley  look-alike  contest,” 
said  Yerby.  His  face  was  expressionless.  Max  shot 
him  a look  that  said  that  this  was  going  to  be  a lulu. 

As  soon  as  the  Elvises  spotted  Yerby,  they 
started  demanding  to  know  what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, how  long  they  were  going  to  be  kept  there. 
Yerby  suspected  that  each  one  of  them  was  some  sort 
of  attention  junkie.  Yerby  distrusted  attention  junk- 
ies; they  could  all  too  often  turn  dangerous  when  they 
didn’t  feel  that  they  were  getting  what  they  de- 
served. He  ignored  the  crowd  of  Presleys  and  beck- 
oned to  one  of  the  uniforms. 

“You  better  take  me  to  the  body.” 

The  victim  was  little  more  than  a kid,  maybe 
eighteen  or  nineteen.  The  ice  pick  had  gone  straight 
into  his  brain,  upwards  through  the  back  of  his  neck. 
There  was  little  blood.  It  looked  like  the  work  of 
someone  who  knew  what  he  was  doing,  the  sort  of 
murder  that  had  been  figured  out  in  advance. 

The  kid  was  good  looking,  and  clearly  a con- 
testant. With  the  help  of  a little  eye  makeup,  he  did 
look  a lot  like  the  young  Elvis  Presley.  He  was 
dressed  in  a black  Fifties-style  suit,  a black  shirt,  and 
a pink  tie.  His  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  there  was 
an  expression  of  blank  surprise  on  his  face,  as  if  he 
couldn’t  quite  believe  what  had  happened.  Yerby  had 
seen  a lot  of  corpses  in  his  time,  but  somehow  he 
could  never  quite  get  used  to  them.  He  arranged  his 
face  into  a cold,  almost  casual  expression,  but  he 
couldn’t  do  anything  about  the  lurch  in  the  pit  of  his 
stomach.  He  turned  to  the  uniform. 

“Is  the  rest  of  the  homicide  crew  on  its  way?” 

The  uniform  nodded.  Yerby  moved  away  from 
the  body. 

“Any  of  these  weirdos  see  anything?” 

“If  they  did,  they’re  not  saying.” 

“Nothing?” 

“One  of  them  claimed  he  saw  someone  in  a 
Presley  suit  running  away  just  after  the  stabbing.” 

Yerby  glanced  at  the  clutch  of  fake  Presleys. 
“That’s  a lot  of  help.  Are  any  of  the  . . . contestants 
missing?” 

“I  don’t  have  a list  yet.” 

“Then  get  one.  In  the  meantime.  I’d  better 
start  talking  to  the  others.” 

The  first  interviewee  was  short  and  fat  in  a 
baby  pink,  double-chinned  way,  as  if  physical 
reality  had  never  laid  hands  on  his  body.  It 
was  the  kind  of  fatness  that  mildly  disgusted  Yerby. 
The  man  had  a tendency  to  waddle  when  he  walked 
and,  at  the  moment,  he  was  sweating  profusely.  His 
forehead  was  becoming  slick  with  grease  from  an 
elaborate  dyed-black  pompadour  that  was  starting  to 
wilt.  He  was  squeezed  into  a white-spangled  Elvis 
Presley  suit,  his  round  pot-belly  sagging  over  the 
heavy  lion’s-head  buckle  of  his  fancy  gilt-chain  belt. 


Yerby  couldn’t  imagine  how  this  pudgy  little  creep 
could  seriously  go  out,  stand  in  a bright  public  spot- 
light, and  imitate  Elvis  Presley.  Who  was  he  hoping 
to  fool? 

Yerby  shifted  position  on  the  hard  steel  chair. 
Once  there’d  been  padding,  but  that  had  long  since 
been  ripped  away.  He’d  commandeered  one  of  the 
small,  dingy  dressing  rooms  for  the  series  of  interro- 
gations. It  was  uncomfortable,  but  he  had  the  conso- 
lation that  the  fat  man  in  the  Elvis  suit  was  probably 
just  as  uncomfortable.  Maybe  ev(?n  more  so.  He  was, 
after  all,  a murder  suspect. 

“So  tell  me  about  the  kid  w ho  was  killed.” 

The  creep  in  the  Elvis  suit  stared  at  Yerby  like 
a scared  rabbit.  In  the  unrelenting  neon  of  the  dress- 
ing room,  he  looked  awful.  Pink  was  fading  to  green. 

“Nobody  knew  him.  He  v^as  new,  straight  in 
off  the  street.” 

Yerby  blinked  twice.  “You’re  telling  me  that 
you  people  work  a regular  circuit”” 

“Yes.”  The  creep  leaned  forward  in  his  seat. 
“There’s  club  dates  and  cabaret.  And  the  bored 
wives’  afternoon  parties,  the  ones  where  they  like 
the  male  strippers.  It’s  not  what  you’d  actually  call  a 
regular  circuit,  but  there  are  an  awful  lot  of  people 
who  like  to  see  interpreters  of  the  late—” 

Yerby’s  voice  was  flat.  “Elvis  imitators.” 

“We  don’t  like  to  use  those  particular  words.” 

“Whatever.” 

“The  competitions  are  the  best.  See,  in  the 
clubs  you  keep  meeting  the  other  kinds— the  women 
w’ho  do  Janis  Joplin,  the  Jim  Morrisons,  the  Jimi 
Hendrixes  . . . although  there  aren’t  many  of  those;  I 
mean  you’re  supposed  to  be  black  and  you  have  to 
play  the  guitar,  you  can’t  just  dress  up  and  sing. 
That’s  why  the  competitions  are  so  nice.  At  the  com- 
petitions, it’s  just  Elvis.” 

Yerby  ran  a hand  over  his  face.  His  mouth  was 
dry,  and  he  needed  a beer  or  a Coke. 

“Hold  it,  hold  it.  I’m  not  a fast  thinker.  First 
your  name.” 

“Vince  Prince.” 

Yerby  nodded,  stone-faced.  “Is  that  the  name 
you  were  born  with?”  The  creep  shook  his  head.  “No, 
but  it’s  legal.  I changed  it.” 

Yerby  nodded  again.  “Okay,  Vince.  You  don’t 
mind  if  I call  you  Vince,  do  you?” 

The  other  shook  his  head.  Yerby  smiled. 

“Okay,  Vince.  That’s  nice.  I take  it  that  we  can 
assume  that  you  are  a participant;  in  this  competition, 
this  . . . w'hat  do  you  call  it?” 

“The  Elvis  Presley  Look-Alike  Contest  — 
Eastern  Seaboard  Area  Finals.” 

Yerby  looked  grave.  “And  the  youngest  com- 
petitor at  the  Eastern  Seaboard  Area  Finals  got  him- 
self stabbed  to  death  with  an  ice  pick  — backstage, 
while  the  competition  w'as  going  on.  I guess  you  could 


74 


‘The  youngest 
competitor  at  the  Eastern 
Seaboard  Area  Finals  got 
himself  staibbed  to  death 
with  an  ice  pick.  I guess 
you  could  say  it  was  final 
for  him.” 


say  it  was  final  for  him.” 

“It  was  horrible.” 

“And  nobody  had  seen  the  kid  before.” 

Vince  Prince  shook  his  head,  dislodging 
another  piece  of  pompadour. 

“No,  nobody.  I asked  around.  Nobody  knew 
him.  But  that’s  not  all--” 

Prince  leaned  even  further  forward.  Yerby  had 
arranged  the  two  chairs  so  that  they  were  close  to- 
gether and  facing  each  other.  He  liked  to  watch  a 
suspect  closely  during  an  interrogation,  but  for  one 
unpleasant  moment,  he  thought  that  Prince  was 
going  to  pat  him  on  the  knee. 

“—he  was  very,  very  good,”  said  Prince. 

“Do  you  think  that’s  maybe  why  he  was 
killed?” 

Prince  started  shaking  his  head.  “No!”  His 
voice  had  jumped  an  octave  from  its  original  Presley 
baritone.  “Nobody  would—” 

“You  don’t  think  one  of  your  compadres  might 
have  gotten  just  a little  jealous  over  how  the  kid  was 
so  good,  and  maybe  decided  to  slip  him  the  ice  pick?” 

The  fat  man  continued  to  shake  his  head.  It 
was  as  if  he  believed  that  the  unpleasant  thought 
would  go  away  if  he  shook  it  long  enough. 

“None  of  us  would  do  a thing  like  that.” 

Yerby  sniffed,  “'rell  me,  Vince,  just  how  good 
was  the  kid?” 

There  was  no  irdstaking  Vince’s  relief  to  find 
himself  on  safer  ground. 

“He  did  the  Fifties.  You  have  to  be  good  to  do 
the  Fifties.” 

Yerby  crooked  an  eyebrow. 

“See,  reproducing  those  early  Elvis  stage 
i shows  is  very  difficult.  Most  of  us  do  the  Seventies 
Vegas  act.  You  have  to  be  young  and  fit  and  really 
know  what  you’re  doing  to  do  the  Fifties.  Those  first 
shows  were  wild,  but  the  kid  had  it  down.  He  had  the 
voice  and  the  look  and  all  those  difficult  slides  and  the 
corkscrew  leg-moves.  He  was  young  and  fresh  and 
looked  as  though  he  was  enjoying  himself.  I’ve  got  to 
tell  you,  some  of  the  old-timers  can  look  kind  of  tired 
at  times.  Some  of  them  have  been  doing  it  too  long.” 

Yerby  nodded  sympathetically.  “Are  you  get- 
ting tired,  my  friend?” 

“I  don’t  know.  Sometimes  . . .” 

. “So  tired  a kid  like  that  made  you  real  upset? 
Threatened,  maybe?” 

“No.” 

“Didn’t  he  threaten  your  cozy  little  fantasy 


world,  Vince?  Wasn’t  he  so  young  and  eager  that  you 
knew  he  was  a danger?” 

“N-no.” 

“So  where  were  you,  Vince?  Where  were  you 
when  the  kid  was  killed?” 

“I  was  watching  the  show.  The  kid  had  just 
come  off  and  the  next  guy  was  up  and  then  I heard  all 
the  shouting.” 

“Are  you  sure  about  that?” 

“Sure  I’m  sure.” 

“Did  anybody  see  you?” 

“My  wife  was  there  with  me  all  the  time.” 
Yerby  was  surprised.  “Your  wife?” 

“My  wife  always  comes  to  these  things  with 
me.  In  fact,  it  was  her  who  pushed  me  into  Elvis  in- 
terpretation in  the  first  place.” 

The  picture  that  he’d  been  building  of  Prince 
hadn’t  included  a wife. 

“She  was  watching  from  the  wings  with  you?” 
“Sure.” 

“Anybody  else?” 

“There  was  a whole  crowd  there.” 

“And  they  saw  you?” 

“I’m  sure  they  did.” 

Yerby  nodded  absently.  He  was  already  con- 
vinced that  the  fat  guy  was  in  the  clear.  A weak  little 
man  with  a domineering  wife  wasn’t  the  stuff  that 
made  an  ice  pick  killer. 

“Okay,  you’re  off  th»  hook  for  now.” 

Prince  looked  like  an  overweight  spaniel  that 
had  been  offered  a doggie  treat. 

“I’ll  be  talking  to  your  wife,”  said  Yerby,  “but 
for  the  moment  you  can  go.” 

“I  guess  I’d  better  not  leave  town.” 

Yerby  didn’t  bother  to  smile. 

The  next  one  was  at  least  the  right  size  and 
shape.  He  was  dressed  in  black  leather.  His 
hair  was  long  and  greasy,  and  he  seemed  to 
have  based  his  style  on  Presley’s  leather  outfit  in  his 
1968  comeback  tv  show.  He  was  clutching  a cherry- 
red  Gibson  guitar;  a red  silk  scarf  was  tossed  around 
his  neck,  air-ace  style.  All  in  all,  he  would  have  made 
quite  a passable  Presley  from  a distance,  except  for 
one  crucial  factor:  an  enormous  nose.  It  was  like  the 
beak  of  a predatory  bird,  or  perhaps  a crag  on  which 
the  bird  might  perch. 

Yerby  stabbed  a finger  at  the  empty  chair. 
“Please  sit  down.” 

The  other  folded  into  the  seat,  cradling  the 
guitar  in  his  lap.  He  looked  awkward  and  defensive; 
he  was  clearly  uncomfortable  to  be  sitting  so  close  to 
the  cop. 

“What’s  your  name?” 

“Darth  Roman.” 

“You’re  putting  me  on.” 

“It’s  my  stage  name.  I made  it  up  myself.” 


75 


Elvis 


Yerby  frowned.  “What’s  your  real  name?” 

“Ron  Kowski.” 

“Okay,  Ron  — ” 

“Darth.” 

Yerby  suddenly  felt  tired. 

“Listen.  I’ve  been  set  in  my  ways  too  long  to 
start  holding  conversations  with  anybody  called 
Darth.  If  you  don’t  mind,  we’ll  stick  to  Ron.” 

The  other  started  to  protest.  His  lower  lip  be- 
came petulant.  “When  I’m  all  dressed  up  like  this  I 
prefer—” 

“You’re  a suspect  in  a murder-case,  Ron.  You 
really  can’t  afford  to  have  too  many  preferences.” 

“I  didn’t  do  anything.” 

“You  don’t  necessarily  have  to  do  anything  to 
get  into  a whole  lot  of  trouble.” 

Kowski  grimaced.  “Look,  man,  I thought  you 
wanted  to  ask  me  some  questions.” 

“I  intend  to,”  said  Yerby.  “Are  you  any  good  at 
this  stuff?” 

“What  stuff?” 

“This  Elvis  Presley  sHiff.  This  imitating.” 

“We  like  to  call  it  interpreting.” 

“I  already  heard  about  that.” 

“What  did  you  want  to  ask  me?” 

“I  was  just  wondering  if  you  were  any  good.” 

Kowski  shook  his  head.  “Nah,  not  really.  I got 
the  clothes  and  the  guitar,  but  beyond  that  I don’t 
take  it  so  seriously.” 

“That’s  a relief.” 

“Yeah,  some  of  them  get  really  carried  away. 
You  might  not  believe  it,  but  a few  of  these  guys  are 
verging  on  psycho,  you  know  what  I mean?  There’s 
some  that  can’t  tell  what’s  real  and  what  ain’t.” 

“But  not  you.” 

Kowski  grinned.  “Hell,  no.  I just  do  it  to  pick 
up  a bit  of  change  and  get  next  to  women.” 

“Women?”-  Yerby  hadn’t  thought  about  women 
hanging  around  with  the  performers  in  these  absurd 
shows. 

Ron’s  grin  had  turned  into  a leer.  “You 
wouldn’t  believe  some  of  the  women  who  come  in  to 
see  us.” 

“I  probably  wouldn’t.” 

“Talk  about  psycho,  they’re  the  ones  who 
really  get  carried  away.  They  just  get  themselves 
twisted  up  in  the  illusion.”  He  winked  at  Yerby.  “I 
don’t  complain  none,  though.” 

Yerby  wondered  what  kind  of  woman  could  use 
a beak-nosed  dummy  like  Ron  Kowski,  even  in  his 
Darth  Roman  suit,  as  an  Elvis  surrogate.  He  didn’t 
figure  Kowski  as  much  of  a lover— or,  for  that  mat- 
ter, as  a murderer.  Still,  he  decided  to  ride  the 
leather-clad  Presley  clone  a little  bit  longer. 

“Did  women  make  a play  for  the  kid  who  got 
killed?” 

Kowski  shook  his  head.  “He  was  a first-timer. 
He  was  damn  good,  though.  Took  it  real  serious.” 


“What  about  the  last  guy  who  was  in  here  — 
the  short  fat  one?  Is  he  any  good'.’” 

“Who,  Vince?”  Kowski  laughed.  “He’s  terrible. 
A walking  joke!  He  shows  up  at  all  these  things.  He 
can’t  sing  and  he  can’t  move,  but  he  sure  enjoys  the 
fantasy.  If  you  ask  me,  it’s  that  u ife  of  his  who  makes 
him  do  it.” 

“You  think  he  killed  the  kid?” 

Kowski’s  grin  broadened.  “Him?  Hell  no,  his 
wife  wouldn’t  let  him.” 

“How  about  you?” 

The  grin  snapped  off.  “Me?  You’ve  got  to  be 
kidding.” 

“Where  were  you  when  the  kid  was  stabbed?” 

“Uh  . . .”  Ron  shifted  in  his  chair. 

“You  got  a problem?” 

“I  was  out  in  the  parking  lot.” 

“The  parking  lot?” 

Kowski  examined  a gaudy  silver  ring  on  his 
left  pinky  finger.  It  was  the  kind  worn  by  greasers 
and  motorcycle  hoods,  shaped  lilce  a skull  with  little 
fake  ruby  eyes.  “I  was,  uh  . . . you  know.”  His  voice 
had  taken  on  a definite  Presley  inflection. 

“No,  I don’t  know,  Ron.  You  tell  me.” 

“I  was  with  a lady— in  the  back  of  her  LTD. 
The  first  I heard  about  the  killing  was  when  I came 
back  inside.” 

“She  couldn’t  keep  her  hands  off  your  leathers, 

huh?” 

Kowski’s  mouth  twisted  into  a smirk.  “You  got 
it.” 

“Can  this  lady  vouch  for  you?” 

Kowski  shook  his  head.  “No,  she  took  off.  She 
had  a husband  and  didn’t  want  to  stick  around.  I don’t 
even  know  her  name.” 

“Then  you  do  have  a problem.” 

Alarm  slowly  dawned  on  Kowski.  “You  don’t 
think  I killed  him,  do  you?” 

“One  of  you  did.” 

“It  didn’t  have  to  be  someone  on  the  show.  It 
could  have  been  an  old  girlfriend,  or  someone  he 
owed  money  to.” 

Yerby  shrugged.  “I’ve  got  to  cover  all  the 
angles.” 

on  Kowski  was  followed  by  a strange-looking 
individual  in  a fancifully  embroidered  pale 
blue  jumpsuit  with  a short  cape  attached  to 
the  shoulders.  At  some  point  in  his  quest  to  be  Elvis, 
he  had  undergone  crude  and  probably  cut-price  plastic 
surgery.  A pair  of  distrustful  blue  eyes  peered  de- 
mentedly  out  from  beneath  eyebrows  that  had  been 
shaved  to  nothing  and  redrawn  in  different  positions. 
For  a few  happy  moments  Yerby  had  a strong  gut 
reaction  that  this  was  his  man,  but  then  it  all  fell  to 
pieces  when  he  discovered  that  the  suspect  had  actu- 
ally been  performing  on  the  stage  at  the  time  of  the 
murder. 


76 


The  single  female  competitor  had  adopted  the 
name  Alice  Malice— not  without  some  degree  of  accu- 
racy. She  came  into  the  room  with  an  arrogant, 
loose-limbed,  gunfighter  strut  that  came  closer  to  the 
style  of  the  young  Elvis  than  a lot  of  what  Yerby  had 
seen  since  he’d  arrived  at  the  dingy  theater.  The 
woman  stood  in  front  of  him  in  a pose  of  tilt-hipped 
defiance;  when  he  nodded  toward  the  chair,  she  glow- 
ered at  him. 

“Do  I got  to?” 

“It’d  make  me  happier.” 

She  didn’t  move  at  first,  but  Yerby  waited  her 
out.  In  the  end  she  sullenly  dropped  into  the  chair. 

“So  what  do  you  want?” 

Yerby  decided  that  the  best  policy  was  shock. 

“So  why  did  you  do  it?” 

Her  lip  curled  and  her  eyes  were  hard.  “What 
am  I supposed  to  have  done?” 

“You  killed  the  kid,  didn’t  you?” 

She  looked  at  him  with  deep  contempt.  “You 
think  I just  got  off  the  boat?” 

“Tough  baby,  huh?” 

In  addition  to  a pink  mohair  zoot  suit,  she  was 
wearing  a black  silk  shirt  with  the  collar  turned  up  in 
the  back.  Her  arms  were  tattooed;  the  tail  of  a blue 
and  green  dragon  protruded  from  her  shirt  cuff 
LOVE  and  HATE  adorned  her  knuckles  Mitchum- 
style. 

“What  the  hell  are  you  saying?” 

“I’m  saying  that  you  took  an  ice  pick  and 
stabbed  the  kid  to  death.” 

“You’re  crazy.” 

She  glared  at  him,  as  if  daring  him  to  do  some- 
thing that  would  give  her  an  excuse  to  geld  a peace 
officer.  Yerby  shrugged. 

“So  tell  me  about  it.” 

“What  do  I got  to  tell?  I didn’t  murder  no- 
body.” 

“You  weren’t  maybe  shacking  up  with  the  kid 
and  had  a falling  out?” 

Alice  Malice’s  lip,  already  curled,  now  twisted 
into  a full-scale  sneer  “Me?  You  think  I’d  actually 
shack  up  with  these  creeps?  Half  of  them  wouldn’t 
know  what  to  do  with  me  if  they  had  me.” 

“And  the  other  half?” 

“You’d  never  get  them  away  from  the  mirror.” 

“You  don’t  like  your  fellow  contestants?” 

• She  looked  directly  into  Yerby’s  eyes.  “I  don’t 
even  like  men.”  After  holding  his  gaze  for  some  time 
but  getting  no  reaction,  she  looked  away.  “When  you 
get  right  down  to.it,  I don’t  much  like  people.” 


“Feel  like  thinning  them  out  a bit?” 

“I  didn’t  kill  anyone.” 

“Somebody  did.” 

“You’re  picking  on  me  because  I’m  the  only 
woman  in  the  show.” 

“You  do  tend  to  stand  out  in  the  crowd.” 

“You’re  probably  just  getting  your  kicks.”  She 
suddenly  looked  sly.  “I’ve  heard  what  you  cops  get  up 
to  on  your  own  time.” 

Yerby  sucked  at  one  of  his  teeth.  He  had  heard 
it  all  before.  “Tell  me,”  he  said,  “what’s  the  point  of  a 
woman  imitating  Elvis  Presley?” 

“What’s  the  point  of  a drag  queen  imitating 
Judy  Garland?” 

“What’s  in  it  for  you?” 

She  shrugged.  “You  gotta  get  a break  where 
you  can.”  It  was  said  with  the  conviction  of  someone 
who  had  never  thought  any  further  on  the  problem. 
“And  besides,  I got  an  alibi.” 

This  caught  Yerby  off  balance.  “What?  Why 
didn’t  you  tell  me  this  before?” 

“You  didn’t  ask  me.  You  were  too  busy  accus- 
ing me  of  killing  the  kid.” 

“So  what’s  this  alibi?” 

“I  was  in  an  empty  dressing  room  with  another 
contestant  and  one  of  the  stage  hands.” 

“You  think  they’re  going  to  go  along  with  you 
on  this?” 

“They  ought  to.  One  was  doing  his  best  to  get 
his  hands  into  my  pants  while  the  other  one 
watched.” 

“I  thought  you  didn’t  like  men?” 

“I  don’t.  I just  like  to  watch  them  squirm.” 

There  wasn’t  a flicker  of  humor  in  her  expres- 
sion. Yerby  knew  that  he  was  getting  nowhere.  He 
was  relieved  when  a uniform  stuck  his  head  around 
the  door. 

“We  seem  to  have  got  ourselves  a witness.” 

“Yeah?  What’s  the  story?” 

“The  witness  claims  to  have  seen  someone  com- 
ing out  of  the  stage  door.  Another  look-alike.” 

Yerby’s  eyebrows  shot  up.  “You  mean  one  of 
the  performers  is  missing?”  If  so,  the  case  was  pretty 
much  sewn  up. 

The  uniform  shook  his  head.  “According  to  our 
list,  they’re  all  here.” 

“Where  is  this  witness?” 

“In  the  alley  just  outside  the  stage  door.” 

“What’s  he  doing  out  there?  Why  don’t  you 
bring  him  in?” 

The  uniform  avoided  Yerby’s  eyes.  He  had 
troubles  of  his  own. 

“He’s  better  off  where  he  is.” 

Yerby  shook  his  head.  “Jesus  Christ,  what  are 
you  doing  to  me?” 

He  got  up  and  headed  for  the  door— and 
walked  straight  into  a fistfight.  An  Elvis  in  a black 
bike-jacket  and  blue  jeans  was  swinging  punches  at  a 


77 


Elvis 


slighter  model  in  the  standard  white  spangles,  who 
was  failing  to  defend  himself  with  some  limp  and  in- 
accurate karate,  while  a crowd  of  Elvises  stood 
watching.  A cordon  of  uniforms  moved  in,  hauling  out 
their  nightsticks.  Yerby  grabbed  the  arm  of  the 
nearest  Elvis. 

“What  in  God’s  name  is  going  on  out  here?” 

The  Elvis  clapped  a theatrical  hand  to  his 
head.  “It’s  terrible,  everyone  is  looking  at  everyone 
as  though  they  were  the  killer,  and  then  Deke  said 
something  to  Tulsa  and  Tulsa  hit  him  and  . . .” 

Tulsa— if  indeed  Tulsa  was  the  one  in  the 
leather  jacket— had  made  the  mistake  of  resisting 
the  uniforms  and  was  now  being  dragged  away  with  a 
nightstick  across  his  throat.  Already  someone  at  the 
edge  of  the  crowd  had  started  yelling  about  police 
brutality,  and  suddenly  the  whole  thing  was  on  the 
verge  of  falling  completely  out  of  hand.  Yerby  was 
suddenly  surrounded  by  a crowd  of  rhinestone- 
padded  shoulders.  Angry  sideburns  moved  in  on  him. 
A tall,  lank  youth  in  a black  ;/el vet  jumpsuit  grabbed 
the  sleeve  of  Yerby’s  shirt  and  refused  to  be  shaken 
off. 

“Don’t  believe  what  anybody  says.  It  wasn’t 
me,  I didn’t  kill  the  kid.  I had  no  reason—” 

Yerby  chopped  his  hand  away  and  spun  him 
toward  the  nearest  uniformed  officer.  More  uniforms 
were  moving  in  and  pushing  the  hysterical  Presleys 
against  the  far  wall.  Yerby  shouldered  his  way 
through  the  melee.  He  wanted  to  see  this  witness 
who  couldn’t  be  let  into  the  DeQuincy  Theater. 

The  witness  was  as  unprepossessing  a speci- 
men of  humanity  as  Yerby’d  ever  seen.  He  wore  old, 
stained  army  fatigue-pants  and  a torn  t-shirt,  and 
clutched  a pint  of  Night  Train  in  his  fist.  The  t-shirt 
advertised  a delicatessen  that  Yerby  knew  for  a fact 
had  been  torched  by  its  owner  for  the  insurance  at 
least  six  years  before.  The  witness  stared  at  Yerby 
with  bleary,  red-rimmed  wino  eyes. 

“You  the  one  in  charge?” 

“Maybe,”  said  Yerby.  “Who  wants  to  know?” 

“It’s  going  to  cost  you  ten  bucks  to  hear  my 

story.” 

“I  ain’t  going  to  give  you  ten  cents.”  Yerby  was 
wondering  whose  idea  of  a joke  this  was. 

The  wino’s  eyes  narrowed.  “I  seen  who  done 
it.” 

“Who  done  what?” 

“The  one  who  done  the  murder.” 

Yerby  sighed  and  gave  the  wino  a dollar.  The 
wino  examined  the  bill. 

“This  is  only  a lousy  buck.” 

“That’s  right.  You’ll  get  another  if  the  story’s 
any  good.” 

The  wino  eyed  Yerby  with  the  kind  of  con- 
tempt that  is  reserved  exclusively  for  law  enforce- 
ment officers,  then  shrugged.  “I  was  just  sitting  back 

7S 


here  drinking,  you  understand.” 

“I  understand.” 

“This  here  alley  is  quiet,  see.  Nobody  comes 
around  to  bother  you,  so  I was  surprised  when  this 
big  black  limousine  pulls  up.” 

“Limousine?” 

“Biggest  damn  Cadillac  I ever  seen.” 

Yerby  was  curious.  “Where  was  it?” 

“Right  here  where  we’re  standing,  right  out- 
side the  stage  door.  Then  these  two  guys  get  out  and 
stand  beside  the  car,  kind  of  leaning  on  it,  like  they’re 
waiting  around  for  someone  to  come  out  of  the  door. 
They  were  big  guys  in  dark  suits,  and  they  kind  of 
had  that  look  on  them.” 

“Look?” 

“The  look  that  guys  hav(>  who  stand  beside 
Presidents,  the  guys  who  bodyguard  big  movie  stars. 
You  know,  always  watching,  with  that  gun-under- 
the-armpit  look.  I seen  those  kind  of  guys  on  tv. 
Never  thought  I’d  see  ’em  in  the  flesh.  At  first  I 
thought  that  someone  big  must  be  playing  the  the- 
ater, but  then  I remember  that  nobody  big  would  go 
near  this  firetrap.  All  they  ever  have  here  is  these 
low-rent  freak  shows.  This  makes  me  real  curious, 
see,  but  I don’t  like  the  look  of  them  two  guys,  so  I 
don’t  want  to  get  too  close.  In  the  end  I just  stand 
aways  off,  hitting  my  bottle  once  in  a while  and  wait- 
ing to  see  what  happens.  I don’t  have  to  wait  too 
long,  either,  ’cause  around  five  minutes  later,  Elvis 
Presley  comes  running  out  the  door.” 

“No,  no,  Presley’s  been  dead  for  years.  You 
saw  one  of  these  freaks  in  their  Elvis  costumes.” 

The  wino  was  adamant.  “I  know  what  I seen. 
He  comes  barreling  out  of  the  stage  door,  heading  for 
the  limo.  He’s  kind  of  fleshy,  overweight,  with  a lot  of 
rings  on  his  hands— and  he’s  sv/eating.  One  of  the 
guys  whips  open  the  door,  and  the  other  throws  this 
big  black  fur  coat  around  his  shoulders.  And  then  he 
ducks  into  the  car  and  I hear  him  say,  ‘That’s  the  first 
of  those  bastards.’  Then  the  car  takes  off,  laying  rub- 
ber all  the  way  down  the  alley.” 

Yerby  looked  like  a man  close  to  the  end  of  his 
rope.  “That’s  it?”  he  said. 

“Uh  huh.  Do  I get  my  other  dollar?” 

“Did  you  get  a license  number  for  the  car?” 

“Hell,  I’m  just  a wino.” 

Yerby  scowled  at  him.  “Why  don’t  you  go  away 
before  I get  angry.  Go  peddle  your  hallucinations  to 
the  National  Enquirer,  they  might  go  for  it.” 

The  wino  glared  at  him  with  a drunk’s  injured 
pride,  though  he  knew  enough  about  cops  not  to 
press  the  point  too  hard.  But  to  himself  he  muttered, 
“Hell,  a man  don’t  have  to  be  crazy  or  a liar  just  be- 
cause he  takes  a drink  now  and  then.” 

Yerby  ran  a hand  over  the  back  of  his  neck.  It 
was  a hot  night.  He  walked  back-  toward  the  theater 
wishing  he  was  someplace  else.  QJ 


.i?t> 


.%v-C4. 

^ 'A''*> 


Sl 

Pal 

Painilab 

byJayRDthbgll 


A PAINTING'S  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  TWO-DIMENSIONAL  NOT  THREE  - 

AND  CERTAINLY  NOT  FOUR. 


Stavros  bangfHl  on  the  hollow  steel  door  of 
apartment  6R.  It  looked  like  a door  from  a 
prison.  “Landlord!”  he  yelled.  “Open  up!” 
The  door  did  not  budge,  but  through  it  came  a 
voice.  “What?  What  do  you  want?” 

Stavros  was  outraged.  He  wasn’t  used  to  climb- 
ing stairs  these  days,  and  this  miserable  building  had 
no  elevator.  If  he  went  to  such  trouble,  he  had  reason. 
“Is  my  building!”  StaATos  shouted.  “Open  the  door!” 

The  door  opened,  revealing  a disgusting  sight: 
Frank  Westerman,  twenty-four,  was  zipping  his 
rumpled  jeans  and  rubbing  sleep-crusts  from  his  eyes 
— at  eleven  A.M.!  Silently  Stavros  cursed  young 
Americans.  They  were  healthy,  with  rich  parents— 
and  they  slept  away  every  advantage.  Why  had  he 
rented  to  this  barnacle?  By  Westerman’s  age,  he, 
Dhimitrios  Stavropoulis,  had  emigrated  from  Greece 
and  was  part  owner  of  New  York’s  Athena  Cafe.  And 
what  had  Westerman  ever  accomplished? 

Then  the  odor  hit  Stavros,  the  smell  of  strong 
solvent  and  sweet  lins(;ed  oD. 

“I  check  for  damage,”  said  Stavros,  striding  into 
the  apartment.  “Or  don’t  you  want  deposit  return?” 
On  the  deck-gray  floor  were  pans  and  flowering  hy- 
drangeas packed  into  cherry  crates.  The  kitchen 
coxmter  and  table  were  littered  with  mayonnaise  jars 
half  filled  with  gray  and  green  fluids,  like  swamp 
samples.  Stavros  passed  through  the  kitchen  into  the 
bathroom.  Half  awake,  Westerman  followed. 

Grabbing  a worn  broom  from  beside  the  tub, 
Stavros  proceeded  to  butt  the  handle  at  the  ceiling. 
Clods  of  plaster  fell  into  the  toilet,  sending  up  water. 
“Ceiling’s  bad,”  Stavros  muttered. 

“I  didn’t  do  it,”  said  Westerman.  Stavros  mo- 
tioned him  out  of  the  way.  They  met  again  in  the  com- 
bination living  room  and  bedroom.  Stavros  was  staring 
at  the  west  wall.  That  wall  was  now  a mural. 

The  mural  had  no  subject;  it  was  not  a landscape 
or  a portrait,  a fruit  bowl,  a bouquet,  or— heaven  pro- 
tect us— a nude.  If  this  artwork  was  about  anything,  it 
was  about  green  and  blue— and  about  light  itself.  In 
places,  gold  illumination  inks  had  been  suspended  in 
emerald,  sapphire,  and  clear  acrylic.  Rich  oil  paints 
filled  the  gaps  with  every  other  color.  A repeating 
motif  of  black  markings,  like  veins  or  the  fur  of  an 
animal,  paradoxically  made  the  whole  thing  seem 


brighter.  And  the  shapes . . . They  kept  changing,  like 
constellations  of  parabolas,  or  the  shapes  in  the  faces 
of  his  children. 

“This  wall  was  white,”  said  Stavros,  frowning. 
But  while  he  frowned  he  stepped  toward  the  mural, 
fingers  outstretched,  trying  to  figure  its  depth. 

At  last  he  turned.  Westerman,  framed  by  the 
window,  was  smiling,  sunlight  glinting  through  his 
long,  paint-flecked  hair,  which  curled  like  a girl’s.  Now 
Stavros  noticed  Westerman’s  hands  and  forearms. 
They  were  streaked,  as  if  bruised,  with  a mix  of  pale 
green  and  gold,  blue  and  black.  If  the  discoloration  had 
been  forty-weight  oil,  or  even  honest  house  paint, 
Stavros  .would  have  approved.  That  would  be  manly. 

“This  wall  must  be  painted,”  said  Stavros. 

“Wait  a few  days,”  Westerman  suggested. 
“February  starts  next  week.  The  new  tenant  might 
like  it.”  • 

Stavros  rested  his  fists  on  his  hips.  “I  come 
tomo^ow  at  eight,”  he  said.  “Eight  in  the  morning. 
That  is  how  a workday  is  made.” 

“Look,”  said  Westerman.  “It’s  not  that  I’m  so 
attached  to  my  work.  I give  away  most  of  it.  But  this 
mural  was  born  for  this  wall.”  He  spoke  slowly,  gestur- 
ing toward  the  sources  of  light.  “The  shimmer  feeds 
off  light  and  shadows  from  these  windows  and  over- 
head fixtures,  so  that  the  shapes  change  from  hour  to 
hour.  Can’t  you  see?  I mean,  it  belongs  here,  Mr. 
Stavros.” 

“Not  only  must  it  be  painted,”  said  Stavros. 
“The  new  paint  must  be  paid.  What  is  left  of  your 
deposit  is  returned  when  the  wall  is  fixed.” 

“Okay,  okay,”  said  Westerman.  He  pulled  blue 
sheets  off  the  mattress  and  began  stuffing  them  into 
an  army  duffle. 

“Maybe  you  do  not  know,”  Stavros  said  with 
some  dignity.  “This  is  my  building.  My  wall.  My  walls 
are  white.” 

Westerman  looked  up  angrily  from  his  laundry. 

“Now  what  are  you  thkking?”  Stavros  said. 
“That  I am  an  evil=^an  to  paint  my  own  wall?  Yes? 
And  you  are  a good  man  to  mess  my  wall  however  you 
like?” 

“I  was  thinking,”  said  Westerman,  “about  this 
‘my  building,  my  walls  are  white’  routine.  Freud  had  a 
word  for  guys  with  your  problem.”  He  went  into  the 


81 


Paintfab 


bathroom  to  flush  the  plaster  from  the  toilet  bowl. 

Following  him,  Stavros  stood  blocking  the  door- 
way. “Very  good,  university  boy,”  he  said.  “But  the 
big  difference  between  you  and  myself  is  two  apart- 
ment buildings,  one  restaurant,  a good  clean  Orthodox 
wife,  two  strong  sons—” 

“I’m  sure  they  enjoy  you  a lot,”  said  Wester- 
man,  reflushing  the  toilet.  Together  they  watched  the 
chimky,  milky  brew  rise  precariously,  almost  overflow, 
and  then  subside. 

“Feh!”  Stavros  said.  “My  family  respects  me. 
That’s  a word  you  don’t  know  here  in  America.  My 
father,  Nikolos  Stavropoulis,  was  a wise  man,  a 
laborer,  and  the  son  of  a laborer.  He  didn’t  want  me  to 
make  his  mistake.  ‘Work  itself  is  no  success,’  he  told 
me.  ‘Control  what  is  yours.’  ” 

Stavros  looked  at  Westerman.  What  could  this 
boy  know  of  life?  “Imagine  a choice,”  he  said  paternal- 
ly. “You  can  work  for  just  enough  to  eat,  or  you  can 
work  for  power.  What  would  you  choose?” 

Westerman  was  quiet  a«noment.  “You  do  what 
you  have  to,”  he  said.  “I’m  sorry.” 

“I  don’t  need  your  stupid  pity,”  said  Stavros. 

“Then  you  can’t  have  it.”  Westerman  pushed 
past  him  and  began  emptying  mayo  jar  after  mayo  jar 
into  the  stained  kitchen  sink. 

“Take  my  money  instead,”  he  went  on. 
“Whitewash  the  whole  goddamn  planet.  But  listen: 
With  this  mural,  you’re  up  against  more  than  you 
know.” 

“Walls  all  cover  the  same,”  said  Stavros.  He 
gestured  as  if  he  held  a paint  roller. 

“Not  this  wall,”  said  Westerman. 

“I  will  handle  it,”  said  Stavros,  “at  eight  tomor- 
row morning.”  ■ 

“Dina!”  Stavros  said  to  his  wife.  “I  told  you  I 
won’t  have  radio  in  the  morning.” 

“Boogie  down”  the  radio  blathered,  “open  to  me, 
bahy.  ” Stavros  bit  viciously  into  a muffin.  Beside  him, 
twelve-year-old  Konstantinos  ate  in  studied  silence. 
Soon  Father  would  go  out.  At  school  he  was  learning 
to  beat  sheet  metal  into  ashtrays. 

“Nikki,”  Dina  called  to  her  youngest,  “shut  the 
music.  Father  doesn’t  want  it.”  Nikki  trotted  to  the 
counter,  turned  up  the  volume  by  accident,  then 
quieted  things. 

Polished  copper  pans  hung  on  the  white  kitchen 
walls.  At  the  new  electric  stove,  spatula  in  one  hand 
and  skillet  in  the  other,  Dina  inspected  a hissing  egg. 

“Why  is  it  this  way?”  said  Stavros  to  no  one  in 
particular.  Dina  flipped  the  egg.  “I  don’t  like  radio  in 
the  morning,”  said  Stavros.  “All  right,  woman?” 

“Nikki  meant  no  harm,”  said  Dina,  bearing  eggs 
to  the  table.  “He  is  six.  He  won’t  do  it  again.” 

Nikki  looked  like  Stavros  as  a child— dark  and  in- 
tense, impressed  with  the  world’s  sobriety.  “Sorry, 


Father,”  he  said. 

“This  is  my  house,  Nikolos,”  said  Stavros. 
“Must  I get  rid  of  that  radio?” 

“No,  Father.  Please.” 

“I  have  not  decided,”  said  Stavros.  He  rose  from 
the  table.  In  one  motion  he  scrubbed  his  lips  with  a 
napkin  and  threw  it  at  his  plate.  Then  he  shrugged  into 
his  heavy  coat,  closed  the  door  on  his  family,  and 
stepped  into  the  quiet  of  the  elevator. 

Outside,  Stavros  hailed  a cab.  Ice  had  damaged 
trees  during  the  night;  the  taxi  rolled  along,  pulveriz- 
ing hundreds  of  glittering  twigs.  Unlike  his  native 
land.  North  America  was  bitterly  cold.  Even  home  was 
no  sanctuary.  Why  is  it  this  way?  Stavros  thought. 
Why  is  there  no  pleasure  in  life? 

His  keys  let  him  into  his  building.  A hint  of 
steam  heat  greeted  his  face.  From  the  basement  he 
lugged  cheap  white  latex  paint,  turpentine  and  toluene 
for  thinning,  brushes,  rollers,  rectangular  pans,  news- 
papers, and  an  old  brown  shirt. 

When  these  things  were  gathered  on  the  sixth 
floor  landing,  Stavros  checked  his  watch.  Now  to  wake 
the  lazy  American,  he  thought.  He’ll  soon  see  who  gets 
things  done  in  this  building.  Smiling,  he  knocked  on 
the  door. 

“Westerman,”  he  called.  “Eight  A.M.” 

There  was  no  answer. 

“Wake  up!”  he  yelled. 

No  response.  He  banged  again  on  the  steel  door. 

“I  have  keys,”  he  threatened.  “I  am  going  to 
paint  that  wall!”  A^r  all  this  trouble,  the  vision  of 
Westerman  snoozing  was  infuriating.  “I  come  in 
now,”  he  said,  jangling  a loaded  key  ring.  With  im- 
mense satisfaction,  he  turned  the  key  and  flung  open 
the  door. 

The  apartment  was  empty.  All  that  remained 
were  plumbing  and  light  fixtures.  Stavros  ventured  in- 
side. 'The  floor  had  been  swept  clean,  the  garbage-filled 
grocery  bags  removed,  the  cereal  boxes  and  sprouting 
pans,  the  blender,  the  fruit  crates,  and  the  yogurt- 
maker,  even  the  wood  matches  for  the  old  gas-stove 
had  vanished. 

Stavros  saw  clearly  now,  in  the  absence  of 
Westerman’s  personal  effects,  that  the  apartment  was 
incorrigibly  ugly.  The  walls  were  badly  patched,  the 
plaster  cracking.  The  window  fittings  had  been  painted 
and  repainted  without  stripping,  old  paint  buckled 
beneath,  raising  a pattern  of  square  bumps  like  lizard 
skin.  A roach  ran  by.  Stavros  stomped  on  it;  black 
powder  poured  from  a corner  of  the  ceiling.  It  sounded 
like  sand  hitting  paper.  He’d  get  the  paint  up  today,  he 
decided.  He  couldn’t  bear  to  be  in  this  place  longer 
than  that. 

Rounding  the  comer  into  the  main  room, 
Stavros  hoped  that  the  mural  had  somehow  vanished 
with  Westerman’s  goods.  But  there  it  was;  he  saw  it 
without  looking  at  it,  and  it  seemed  uncleap,  a huge 


•2 


blue-green  blot  on  the  smoothest  wall.  It  had  to  go.  It 
had  to  be  smashed  like  an  insect  and  mopped  up  like 
syrup.  It  had  to  be  eradicated,  and  fast. 

Although  he  feared  soiling  his  coat,  Stavros  laid 
it  down  in  a comer.  Changing  into  his  work  shirt,  he 
brought  in  his  equipment  from  the  hall.  A shiver  ran 
through  him;  he  eyed  1;he  closed  windows  and  wheez- 
ing radiators.  He’d  be  glad  to  get  out  of  6R. 

He  covered  a tvm-by-two  swatch  at  the  lower 
right  corner  of  the  w:ill  with  quick-dry  white  latex. 
How  good  the  roller  felt:  smooth  and  thorough.  Hear- 
ing the  grackle-grackh  of  tacky  paint  adliering,  he 
believed  for  a moment  that  the  day  would  be  a satisfy- 
ing one,  and  Stavros  stepped  back  to  admire  the  good 
beginning. 

But  no,  something  was  wrong.  The  black  tabby- 
striping  on  the  wall  wasi  coming  back;  the  acetone-base 
marker  ink  was  creeping  up  through  the  latex. 

Stavros  was  troubled.  Despite  the  paint  fumes, 
he  lit  a Pall  Mall.  He  chain-smoked  for  half  an  hour, 
telling  himself  that  the  next  coat  would  fix  it. 

Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  he  drew  the 
roller  through  the  pan  of  paint.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  striped  milky  square,  mbbing  the  paint  in  until  the 
wall  whitened. 

Damn  it!  The  black  lines  were  forcing  their  way 
through  again,  creating  an  unruly  pattern  like  giant 
hairs.  Twice  more  he  latexed  the  swath;  twice  more 
dirty  fingers  of  pigment  crept  to  the  surface. 

Nothing  was  getting  done.  The  air  was  thick 
with  smoke  and  fumes.  It  was  near  eleven  A.M.;  like 
Westerman  he  had  made  no  progress  by  eleven!  First 
eleven  comes,  then  noon,  then  the  day  is  over!  A new 
approach  was  needed.  Stavros  picked  up  the  latex  pan; 
the  pan  beneath  it  clanlced  to  the  floor,  and  he  filled  it 
with  turpentine.  Ugh— it  smelled!  He  threw  a rag  into 
the  turpentine,  balled  it  up,  and  sloshed  this  on  the 
same  patch  of  wall. 

This  did  nothing.  The  turpentine,  he  saw,  was 
not  going  to  touch  acrylic.  Stavros’s  head  hurt.  He 
could  not  accept  how  ineffectual  he  had  become.  Pour- 
ing more  from  the  turpentine  can  marked  cautim—vse 
in  ventilated  area,  he  dsibbed  at  the  comer  of  the  wall, 
inhaling  and  exhaling  angrily. 

“My  wall!”  he  muttered.  “You  cannot  turn 
against  me!  I am  someone.”  But  the  wall  gleamed 
harshly,  gaining  power  from  the  day’s  best  light.  Blues 
and  greens  danced  before  his  tired  eyes,  undulating 
with  shapes  he  almost  recognized— shapes  he  did  not 
want  to  see. 

Over  and  over  he  scmbbed  with  the  turpentine. 
The  only  thing  affected  was  the  cheap  white  latex  he 
had  just  applied,  which  turned  to  a mhky  wash.  When 
he  wiped  that  off  with  a clean  rag,  the  mimal  remained 
—was  it  brighter  now  in  the  mounting  light— and  his 
headache  clanged  at  his  temples.  Stavros  sighed,  inhal- 
ing turpentine  and  defesit.  Defeat.  The  Grumbacher  oil 


paints  had  smeared  slightly,  into  bright  bandages  of 
color,  and  he  felt  strange  now,  so  strange,  as  if  some- 
one were  watching  him. 

Something  was  trying  to  get  to  him,  he  felt. 
Like  a man  in  a dark  alley,  he  kept  his  mind  on 
a defense.  He  opened  the  toluene.  This 
thinner,  he  had  been  told,  could  handle  anything.  Pour- 
ing some  onto  a rag,  he  felt  sick  to  his  stomach.  Use  in  a 
well-ventilated  space,  printed  on  the  can,  appeared  as  a 
blur.  He  leapt  at  the  wall  and  madly  attacked  a black 
marker  strip.  No— the  thing  was  on  forever.  Had  the 
wall  won?  What  was  the  point  of  this?  In  crazed  misery, 
Stavros  giggled.  Giggled!  The  only  way  he  could  stop 
giggling  was  to  cough.  He  felt  ridiculous. 

Coughing  and  giggling  and  terrified,  Stavros 
backed  toward  the  closed  windows.  They  rattled  in  the 
wind.  He  started  at  the  noise,  then  sank  to  the  floor. 
His  gut  hurt,  his  head  hurt,  and,  worst  of  all,  he  was 
losing  control. 

No,  he  told  himself.  He  would  think.  He  would 
think  despite  pain  and  panic.  There  was  something  he 
was  not  doing  right.  From  the  far  side  of  the  room, 
Stavros  saw  the  whole  mural.  Why  had  he  been  so 
foolish  as  to  look  at  it?  He  wished  he  had  not.  It  had  a 
certain  presence,  like  a man  who  insists  on  eye  con- 
tact. Such  things  can  steal  your  soul.  Stavros,  be  objec- 
tive, he  told  himself.  The  trouble  was,  as  he  saw  now, 
that  the  comer  he  had  toiled  so  long  to  deface  had  held 
fast,  resolute  as  the  rest  of  the  painting.  It  wanted  him 
to  recognize  it  as  a monument,  a force  that  would  not 
die. 

Nonsense!  thought  Stavros. 

And  then  the  colors  began  to  dance. 

The  shapes  were  rocking  in  the  shifting  light. 
The  colors  were  richer,  thicker.  They  curled  toward 
him  like  a living  spray  of  sea  foam,  and  kept  coming. 

The  air  was  filled  with  vapors  now.  Stavros  was 
floating,  floating.  He  struggled  to  his  feet,  tried  to 
open  a window.  He  felt  so  weak.  This  one  window  must 
open.  Then  he  saw  that  he  had  done  himself  in:  the 
window  was  sealed  with  old  white  paint.  The  other 
window ...  He  must  get  to  the  other  one . . . 

Then  the  mural  was  in  front  of  him.  He  had  been 
facing  the  vdndow,  certainly.  But  there  it  was  again 
—the  blue  and  green  of  the  Aegean  Sea.  He  did  not 
know,  at  that  moment,  if  he  walked  or  floated,  but  he 
was  propelled  toward  it  as  if  hypnotized,  arms  out- 
stretched. He  smelled  the  sea,  saw  the  rock  where  he 
and  his  father  had  sat  so  long  ago.  He  tripped  —there 
was  a clattering  and  a splash— solvents?— and  fell 
wallward,  into  the  s^. 

For  a time  he  was  lost,  floating  in  swirls  of  color, 
suspended  in  a slow,  viscous  blue-green  water  world. 
Then  he  looked  up— was  it  up?— to  focus,  and  the  wall’s 
crazings  and  slash-mark  stripes  organized  into  a pic- 
ture of  the  world  above  the  water,  the  marks  aligning 


S3 


Paintfob 


into  the  lines  of  his  father’s  sun-dried  face.  This  looked 
down  at  him. 

Stavros  surfaced,  coughing  and  choking.  On 
the  rock  above  him  sat  a bitter-faced  man 
and  a serious  little  boy.  It  was  Stavros’s 
father,  and  his  own  child-self.  Then  came  the  most 
wonderful  thing:  to  hear  a voice  he  had  not  heard  for  a 
quarter  century.  His  father  spoke  to  him. 

“Dhimitrios,”  his  father  said.  The  old  man  pulled 
him  from  the  water.  Stavros  lay  on  the  rock,  gasping 
like  a beached  fish. 

“Look  at  this,”  his  father  commanded,  pointing 
at  the  child.  Stavros  did  not  see  the  point  at  first,  but 
he  did  as  he  was  told.  And  he  saw  the  child’s  face 
gradually  changing,  growing,  while  the  boy’s  body  re- 
mained frail  and  tiny.  And  one  by  one  the  father’s  dis- 
figurement appeared  on  the  face  of  the  boy:  first  the 
sea-green  fissures,  then  the  worry  lines,  as  if  from  a 
black  marker,  then  the  blue  of  sorrow. 

“Work  is  not  enough,”  his  father’s  voice 
boomed.  “Power  is  not  enough.  You  must  invest  your 
labor  in  living— not  in  this  bleached  survival.” 

Father  and  child  blended  before  him  into  a giant 
storm  of  a face.  It  screamed  at  him  with  terrible  winds 
and  crashing— an  apparition  as  large  as  the  mind  could 
take  in. 

“You  don’t  enjoy  your  plenty  or  your  family,  do 
you?”  the  voice  rang  out.  A wave  of  blue-green  tried  to 
haul  him  back  into  the  sea,  passing  ferociously  over  his 
leg  like  a flame  tasting  a log.  “I  showed  you  a road  to 
safety  and  contentment,”  his  father  railed.  “You  mope 
along  this  road  like  a condemned  man.  Again  I tell  you: 
You  must  choose  your  life.” 

Then  Stavros  could  see  nothing,  nothing  at  all. 
He  tried  to  speak;  no  words  came.  He  felt  his  father’s 
hands  reach  him,-  hold  him,  then  shove  him  away.  He 
tumbled  helplessly,  falling  backward  deep  into  the 
Aegean. 

Then  he  was  swimming,  he  was  young  and  swim- 
ming strong.  His  vision  swirled,  his  ears  rang  with 
twenty  waterfalls,  and  he  swam  on.  He  heard  little 
Nikolos  calling  him,  and  he  swam  harder,  stroke  after 
stroke.  He  heard  his  son’s  high-pitched  trivial  plea, 
“Can’t  we  keep  the  radio?” 

The  wall  came  back  into  view.  It  was  the  beach 
he  must  get  to.  And  there  were  Dina’s  hands,  huge 
across  the  wall,  reaching  to  him.  These  were  the 
smooth  new  hands  he’d  seen  wrapped  around  a 
demitasse  at  the  Athena  Cafe  fourteen  years  before; 
he’d  been  asking  her  to  marry  him.  Now,  as  then,  he 
studied  each  elegant  finger,  feeling  the  same  longing 
he  had  felt  ages  ago.  He  tried  to  gather  his  strength,  to 
swim  to  her.  Now.  Now.  Was  his  arm  too  short  to 
reach  these  distant  joys?  Dina  shrank  further  and  fur- 
ther from  him.  For  an  instant,  he  felt  very  sad.  Then 
the  waters  closed  over  him. 

S4 


Cold.  Terrible  drafts.  Shouting.  Who  would 
shout  at  a man  so  ill?  Stavros  opened  his 
eyes.  They  ached.  He  saw  only  a curdled 
whiteness.  His  ears  were  freezing.  His  back  hurt.  He 
closed  his  eyes. 

“Stavros!  C’mon  man,  say  something.”  The 
voice  was  familiar  but  he  couldn’t  place  it.  He  was  too 
cold,  and  didn’t  know  where  he  was.  He  wriggled  his 
shoulders,  but  something  was  gripping  him.  Lurching 
forward,  he  banged  his  head.  “Watch  it  now,”  the 
voice  said.  “Easy.  Just  say  you’re  okay.” 

Eyes  open  again,  Stavros  figured  things  out:  He 
was  face  up,  being  held  with  his  head  out  the  window. 
Through  the  glass  he  saw  Frank  Westerman. 

“What  are  you  doing?”  Stavros  demanded. 
“When  you  use  solvents,”  Westerman  said,  “you 
should  open  a window.” 

Stavros  tried  to  stand.  Westerman  threw  the 
landlord’s  coat  over  his  shoulders,  helped  him 
downstairs,  and  found  them  a taxi.  Somehow  Stavros 
recited  his  address,  and  then  Dina  was  opening  a door 
to  them.  Stavros  reached  for  her,  reached  her;  Dina’s 
eyes  widened  with  surprise. 

Stavros  lay  on  the  blue  sofa.  He  remembered 
suddenly  that  Dina  had  picked  it  out.  He  heard  her  in 
the  kitchen,  thanking  Westerman.  Frank  Westerman? 
In  this  house?  Well,  Dina  had  let  him  in.  It  was, 
Stavros  admitted  grudgingly,  her  house  too.  What 
difference  could  it  make?  He  was  weak  and  sick,  but 
home. 

He  heard  Westerman  say,  “Tell  him  that  gesso 
and  a couple  coats  of  oil-base  primer  would  have  wiped 
the  thing  right  out.” 

What  a smart  aleck  Westerman  was,  Stavros 
thought.  He  would  not  be  ignored  like  this.  “I’m  sick  of 
that  wall,”  Stavros  called  out.  “I’m  leaving  it  for  the 
next  tenant  to  worry  about.  Dina,  write  this  boy  a 
check  for  his  stupid  deposit— the  lull  amount.  And  tell 
Nikki  from  now  on  he  better  ktjep  the  radio  in  his 
room.” 

“The  mural’s  fine,”  Westerman  confided,  as 
Dina  handed  him  the  check.  “There’s  damage,  but 
after  a week,  oils  come  through  cheap  latex  almost 
good  as  new.” 

Then  abruptly  he  turned,  padded  out  into  the 
hall  on  paint-spattered  sneakers,  and  was  gone,  leav- 
ing the  door  ajar.  Dina  clicked  it  shut  behind  him,  and 
began  again  the  rhythmic  dicing  of  carrots.  In  a far 
room,  a radio  came  on,  giving  off  soft  jazz.  Stavros 
drank  in  the  music,  determined  to  enjoy  it.  He 
breathed  deeply,  hoping  this  would  dim  the  pains  in  his 
head  and  the  bright  flashes  at  the  edge  of  his  vision. 

The  sofa  seams  were  straight,  he  noted.  And 
though  the  ceiling  above  him  had  patchy  spots,  on  the 
whole  it  was  good. 

Slowly,  and  for  the  first  time  in  years,  Stavros 
began  to  feel  better.  iS 


ifejDGHT 

^NE 

The  Third  Season 


by  Marc  Scott  Zicree 


On  September  15, 1961,  with  the 
show  entitled  “Two,”  The  Twilight 
Zone  began  its  third  season.  Much  had 
changed  in  the  world  since  the  show 
had  debuted  in  1959.  John  F.  Kennedy  ^ 
was  now  President;  man  had  ventured 
into  space  and  orbited  the  earth.  Great 
turmoil  lay  ahead— but  there  was  also 
the  promise  of  a different,  better  world. 

The  atmosphere  surrounding  The 
Twilight  Zone  had  changed  greatly, 
too.  When  it  was  unveiled  on  October 
2, 1959,  it  was  an  unknown  commodity, 
a curiosity  that  fit  into  no  previous 
television  category.  Now,  two  years 
later,  it  was  established  as  a category 
unto  itself— and  was  a success  by  any 
standard. 

“We  now  hit  approximately  five 
himdred  letters  a week,”  Rod  Serling 
said  at  the  time.  “We  have  fan  clubs  in 
thirty-one  states.  And  we  get  an 
average  of  fifty  story  ideas  submitted 
to  us  each  week  from  people  who  ‘dig’ 
fantasy,  the  unusual,  the  imaginative.” 

The  show  had  an  average  weekly 
audience  of  close  to  twenty  million 
people,  and  Serling’s  two  paperback 
adaptations  of  his  teleplays.  Stories 
from  The  Twilight  Zone  and  More 
Stories  from  The  Twilight  Zone,  had 
already  sold  more  than  half  a million 
copies.  There  was  a Twilight  Zone 
comic  book  (with  each  story  introduced 
by  a comic-lx)ok  version  of  Serling),  a 
Tvrilight  Zone  board  game  (in  which 
players  moved  their  pieces  down 
various  mazelike  “roads  to  reality”), 
and  a Twilight  Zone  LP  (featuring 
Marty  Manning  and  his  orchestra  and 
billed  as  “An  Adventure  in  the  Space  of 
Sound”).  Where  the  products  left  off, 
the  inventiveness  of  the  fans  took  over. 
A black  Model  A Ford  was  seen  outside 
a Los  Angeles  high  school  with  the 
words  “The  Twilight  Zone”  painted  in 
white  across  its  side.  And  in  Teaneck, 
New  Jersey,  “The  Twilight  Zone”  coffee 
house  opened  its  doors  for  business. 

The  series  had  already  gathered  a 
host  of  prestigious  awards,  including 
ones  from  the  Directors  Guild  (for 
“Time  Enough  at  Last”),  the 
Producers  Guild,  and  such  magazines 


as  Limelight,  Radio  and  Television 
Daily,  and  Motion  Picture  Daily.  It 
had  also  won  two  of  science  fiction’s 
coveted  Hugo  Awards  (with  a third  still 
to  come),  and  the  1961  Unity  Award 
for  Outstanding  Contributions  to 
Better  Race  Relations.  Then  there 
were  the  three  Emmys— two  to 
Serling  and  one  to  Director  of 
Photography  George  T.  Clemens. 

Interestingly,  the  first  of  Serling’s 
two  Emmys— for  outstanding 
dramatic  achievement  in  writing— for 
The  Twilight  Zone  came  as  a complete 
surprise  to  him.  The  other  nominees 


were  an  adaptation  of  “The  'Turn  of 
the  Screw”  starring  Ingrid  Bergman 
and  “Project  Immortality,”  an  episode 
ot  Playhouse  90.  Serling  was  so  certain 
he  wasn’t  going  to  win  that  he  hadn’t 
even  bothered  to  shave  prior  to  the 
ceremony.  When  he  got  to  the  podium, 
he  said  simply,  “I  don’t  know  how 
deserving  I am,  but  I do  know  how 
grateful  I am.”  The  second  year  he 
won,  he  held  the  award  up  and 
addressed  the  show’s  other  writers. 
“Come  on  over,  fellas,”  he  said,  “and 
we’ll  carve  it  up  like  a turkey.” 

Another  measurement  of  the 
show’s  success  related  specifically  to 


Serling  himself.  Since  the  tv  play 
Patterns,  his  name  had  been  well 
known  but  not  his  face.  The  Twilight 
Zone  had  changtjd  all  that;  Serling  was 
now  a star. 

He  greeted  this  with  pleasure  and 
with  typically  modest  humor.  “Now 
people  see  me  on  the  street  and  they 
say,  ‘Why,  we  tliought  you  were  six 
foot  one’  or  ‘We  thought  you  looked 
like  a movie  actor,’  and  then  they  look 
at  me  and  say,  ‘Wby,  God,  this  kid  is 
five  foot  five  and  he’s  got  a broken 
nose!’  I photograph  far  better  than  I 
look,  and  that’s  the  problem.” 


One  evidence  of  the  show’s  impact 
was  as  unexpected  as  it  was  far- 
reaching.  In  a time  in  which  every  day 
brought  new  scientific  breakthroughs 
and  greater  social  upheaval,  in  which 
the  very  nature  of  reality  itself  would 
be  called  into  question,  “the  twilight 
zone”  was  a term  perfectly  suited  to 
become  a permanent  part  of  the 
American  vocabulary. 

“Dean  Rusk,  our  Secretary  of 
State,  in  a speech  to  the  Senate, 
referred  to  ‘the  twilight  zone  in 
diplomacy,’  Serling  noted.  “When 
that  happened,  -I  thought.  My  gosh, 
we’ve  amved!”  jg 


86 


S H O W - B Y - SHOW  GUIDE 

TV’s  Twilight  Zone: 

Part  Seven 


i 

I 

I 


CONTINUING  MARC  SCOTT  ZICREE’S 
SHOW-BY-SHOW  GUIDE  TO  THE  ENTIRE 
TWIUGHTZONE  TELEVISION  SERIES,  i 
COMPLETE  WITH  ROD  SERLING'S  OPENING  I 
AND  CLOSING  NARRATIONS  I 


“There  is  a fifth  dimension,  beyond  that  which  is 
known  to  man.  It  is  a dimension  as  vast  as  space  and 
as  timeless  as  infmity.  It  is  the  middle  ground 
between  light  and  shadow,  between  science  and 
superstition,  and  it  lies  between  the  pit  of  man’s  fears  I 
and  the  summit  of  his  kjiowledge.  It  is  an  area  which  j 
we  call  The  Twilight  Zone!’  j 


66.  TWO 


Written  and  directed  ! 

’ by  Montgomery  Pittman  j 

Producer:  Buck  Houghton  I 

' Dir.  of  Photography;  George  T.  Clemens  | 
Music:  Van  Cleave  j 

i Cast  I 

' Man:  Charles  Bronson  ! 

: Woman;  Elizabeth  Montgomery  j 

I Stunt  Double:  Sharon  Lucas  i 


“This  is  a jungle,  a monument  built  by  . 
nature  honoring  disuse,  i 

commemorating  a few  years  of  nature 
being  left  to  its  oum  devices.  But  it’s 
another  kind  of  jungle,  the  kind  that 
comes  in  the  aftermath  of  man’s  battles 
against  himself.  Hardly  an  important  ■ 
battle,  not  a Gettysburg  or  a Marne  or 
an  I wo  Jima.  More  like  me 
insignificant  comer  patch  in  the  crazy-  | 
quilt  of  combat.  But  it  was  enough  to 
end  the  existence  of  this  little  city.  It’s  j 
been  five  years  since  a human  being 
uxdked  these  streets.  This  is  the  first  ! 

day  of  the  sixth  year— as  man  used  to  j 

measure  time.  The  time:  perhaps  a I 
hundred  years  from  now.  Or  sooner.  Or  | 
perhaps  it’s  already  happened  two  j 
millim  years  ago.  The  place?  The  i 
signposts  are  in  English  so  that  we  may  j 
read  them  more  easily,  but  the  plcux—is  ‘ 
the  Twilight  Zone.  ’’ 


declaring  peace.  Initially,  she  is  i 

violently  distrustful  of  him— a situation  j 
which  only  intensifies  when  they  | 

remove  two  working  rifles  from  a pair  i 
of  combat-locked  skeletons.  But  when 
he  breaks  a store  window  and  gives  her 
a dress,  she  goes  into  a recruiting  office 
to  slip  it  on.  Unfortunately,  the  '■ 

propaganda  posters  on  the  wall 
rekindle  the  old  hatreds;  she  rushes  out  j 
and  fires  off  several  roimds  at  him.  The  ■ 
next  day,  the  man  returns,  dressed  in  ! 
ill-fitting  civilian  clothes.  To  his  ! 

surprise,  the  woman  is  wearing  the  ! 
dress.  Finally  having  put  aside  the  war, 
she  joins  him  and  the  two  set  off 
together. 

“This  has  been  a love  story,  about  two  i 
lonely  people  who  found  each  other  ...in  \ 
the  Twilight  Zone.  ’’  j 


' While  searching  for  food,  a young  I 
woman  wearing  the  tattered  uniform  of 
■ the  invading  army  encounters  an 
enemy  soldier— a man  intent  on 


( 

1 


•7 


67.  THE  ARRIVAL 


Written  by  Rod  Serling 

Producer:  Buck  Houghton 

Director:  Boris  Sagal 

Dir.  of  Photography:  George  T.  Clemens 

No  music  credit 

Cast 

Grant  Sheckly:  Harold  J.  Stone 
Paul  Malloy:  Fredd  Wayne 
Bengston:  Noah  Keen 
Airline  Official:  Robert  Karnes 
Ramp  Attendant:  Bing  Russell 
Dispatcher:  Jim  Boles 
Tower  Operator:  Robert  Brubakqf 


68.  THE  SHELTER 


Written  by  Rod  Serling 

Producer:  Buck  Houghton 

Director;  Lamont  Johnson 

Dir.  of  Photography:  George  T.  Clemens 

No  music  credit 

Cast 

Dr.  Stockton:  Larry  Gates 
Jerry  Harlowe:  Jack  Albertson 
Marty  Weiss:  Joseph  Bernard 
Henderson:  Sandy  Kenyon 
Man:  John  McLiam 
Grace  Stockton:  Peggy  Stewart 
Paul  Stockton:  Michael  Bums 
Mrs.  Harlowe;  Jo  Helton 
Mrs.  Weiss:  Moria  Turner 
Mrs.  Henderson:  Maiy  Gregory 


“This  object,  should  any  of  you  have 
lived  underground  for  the  better  part  of 
your  lives  and  never  had  occasion  to 
look  toward  the  sky,  is  an  airplane,  its 
official  designation  a DC-3.  We  offer 
this  rather  obvious  comment  because 
this  particular  airplane,  the  one  you’re 
looking  at,  is  a fre^.  Now,  most 
airplanes  take  off  and  land  as  per 
schedule.  On  rare  occasions  they  crash. 
But  all  airplanes  can  be  counted  on 
doing  one  or  the  other.  Now,  yesterday 
morning,  this  particular  airplane 
ceased  to  be  just  a commercial  carrier. 
As  of  its  arrival  it  became  an  enigma,  a 
seven-ton  puzzle  made  out  of  aluminum, 
steel,  wire,  and  a few  thousand  other 
component  parts,  none  of  which  add  up 
to  the  right  thing.  In  just  a moment, 
we’re  going  to  show  you  the  tail  end  of 
its  history.  We’re  going  to  give  you 
ninety  percent  of  the  jigsaw  pieces  and 
you  and  Mr.  Sheckly  here  of  the  Federal 
Aviation  Agency  will  assume  the 
problem  of  putting  them  together  along 
with  finding  the  missing  pieces.  This  we 
offer  as  the  evening’s  hobby,  a little 
extracurricular  diversion,  which  is 


“What  you  are  about  to  watch  is  a 
nightmare.  It  is  not  meant  to  be 
prophetic,  it  need  not  happen,  it’s  the 
fervent  and  urgent  prayer  of  all  men  of 
good  will  that  it  never  shall  happen.  But 
in  this  place,  in  this  moment,  it  does 
happen.  This  is  the  Twilight  Zone.  ’’ 

On  the  evening  of  a surprise  party  for 
kindly,  middle-aged  Doc  Stockton,  the 
radio  announces  that  radar  has 
detected  UFOs  heading  due  southeast 
and  that  citizens  are  urged  to  go  to 
their  shelters.  Doc  promptly  locks 
himself,  his  wife,  and  their  twelve-year- 
old  son  inside  the  shelter  he  has  built  in 
his  basement.  His  neighbors  are 
unprepared,  however;  they  beg  Doc  to 
let  them  and  their  families  share  the 
shelter.  With  air  and  provisions  only 
for  three,  he  refuses.  As  the  neighbors 
argue  what  to  do,  their  bigotry  and 
violence  rise  to  the  surface.  Finally, 
they  obtain  a large  length  of  pipe  and 
use  it  to  batter  down  the  shelter  door. 
Just  then,  the  radio  announces  that  the 
UFOs  have  been  identified  as  harmless 


really  the  national  pastime  in  the 
Twilight  Zone.” 

Flight  107  lands  'ivithout  passengers  or 
pilot.  Sheckly,  Malloy,  and  Bengston 
inspect  the  plane.  To  each  of  them  its 
seat  colors  appear  different.  Convinced 
the  plane  is  an  illusion,  Sheckly  puts  his 
hand  between  the  spinning  propellers. 
The  plane  disappears,  as  do  M^oy  and 
Bengston.  Back  in  the  operations  room, 
both  men  are  unaware  of  the  mystery. 
Bengston  recalls  a Flight  107  that  was 
lost  in  fog  seventeen  years  earlier— the 
one  case  Sheckly  never  solved.  Now  it’s 
come  back  to  haunt  him. 

“Picture  of  a man  with  an  Achilles  heel, 
a mystery  that  landed  in  his  life  and 
then  turned  into  a heavy  weight, 
dragged  across  the  years  to  ultimately 
take  the  form  of  an  illusion.  Now,  that’s 
the  clinical  answer  that  they  put  on  the 
tag  as  they  take  him  away.  But  if  you 
choose  to  think  that  the  explanation  has 
to  do  with  an  airborne  Flying  Dutch- 
man, a ghost  ship  on  a fog-enshrouded 
night  on  a flight  that  never  ends,  then 
you’re  doing  your  business  in  an  old 
stand.  ..in  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 


satellites.  The  neighbors,  ashamed  of 
their  behavior,  apologize  for  the 
damage  they’ve  done.  But  Doc  is  not 
mollified;  he  knows  that,  despite  the 
absence  of  missiles,  the  experience  has 
destroyed  them  a.ll. 

“No  moral,  no  message,  no  prophetic 
tract,  just  a simple  statement  of  fact:  for 
civilization  to  survive,  the  human  race 
has  to  remain  civilized.  Tonight’s  very 
small  exercise  in  logic  from  the  Twilight 
Zeme.” 


ss 


69.  THE  PASSERBY 


Written  by  Rod  Serling 

Producer:  Buck  Houghton 

Director:  Elliot  Silverstein 

Dir.  of  Photography:  Georj^e  T.  Clemens 

Music:  Fred  Steiner 

Cast 

Lavinia:  Joanne  Linville 
The  Sergeant:  James  Gregory 
Abraham  Lincoln:  Austin  Green 
Charlie:  Rex  Holman 
The  Lieutenant:  David  Gaixia 
Jud:  Warren  Kemmerling 


70.  A GAME  OF  POOL 


! Written  by  George  Clayton  Johnson 
I Producer:  Buck  Houghton 
I Director:  Buzz  Kulik 
Dir.  of  Photography:  Jack  Swain 
No  music  credit 
Cast 

I Jesse  Cardiff:  Jack  Klugmsm 
Fats  Brown:  Jonathan  Win  ters 


“77ie  image  of  woman  in  the  aftermath 
of  war.  AU  women  and  all  wars.  The 
final  wound  and  the  deepest.  Lavinia 
Godmn,  the  mistress  of  a bumed-oiU, 
home  in  a bumedrout  land,  who  now 
relinquishes  a bumedrOut  cause.  But  in 
a moment,  the  dusty  road  in  front  that 
began  at  Fort  Sumter,  South  Carolina, 
and  ended  at  Appomattox,  littered  with 
the  residue  of  broken  bodies  and 
shattered  dreams,  will  terminate  in  a 
strange  province  that  knows  neither 
north  nor  south— a place  we  call  the 
Twilight  Zone." 

A Confederate  sergeant  with  a wooden 
leg  stops  to  rest  in  front  of  the  mansion 
and  strikes  up  a conversation  with 
Lavinia,  who  feels  certain  that  her 
beloved  husband  Jud,  a Confederate 
soldier,  is  dead.  Loneliness  and  loss 
have  bred  hatred  in  her,  and  when  a 
blinded  Union  lieutenant  pauses  for  a 
drink  of  water  she  shoots  him  point- 
blank  with  a rifle— to  no  effect.  The 
lieutenant  departs,  and  the  sergeant 
begins  to  draw  a frightening 
conclusion:  that  all  Aose  on  the  road. 


“Jesse  Cardiff,  pool  shark,  the  best  cm 
Randolph  Street,  who  will  soon  learn 
that  trying  to  be  the  best  at  anything 
carries  its  own  special  risks,  in  or  out 
of  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 

Alone  in  Clancy’s  pool  hall,  Jesse  voices 
his  dearest  wish:  that  he  be  allowed  to 
play  the  late  Fats  Brown  and  prove 
that  he,  not  Fats,  is  really  the  greatest 
pool  player.  Fats  appears  and 
challenges  Jesse  to  a game— with 
Jesse’s  life  as  the  stakes.  A game  of 
skill,  nerve,  and  bluff  commences,  with 
Fats  seeming  to  hold  the  upper  hand. 
But  at  last  Jesse  has  only  one  easy  ball 
to  sink  to  win  the  game.  Fats  warns 
him  that  he  might  win  more  than  he 
bargjms  for,  but  Jesse  disregards  this 
and  sinks  the  ball.  After  he  dies, 
however,  he  realizes  the  meaning  of 
Fats’  words:  it  is  now  he  who  must 
wearily  rise  to  every  challenge  from 
ambitious  players  on  earth. 


including  he  and  Lavinia,  are  dead. 
Suddenly,  Jud  arrives  and  confirms  this 
fact.  Lavinia  cannot  accept  this.  She 
begs  Jud  to  stay  with  her,  but  he  is 
compelled  to  continue  down  the  road. 
As  he  walks  away,  a figure  draws  near 
who  is  the  last  man  on  the  road— and 
the  last  casualty  of  the  Civil 
War— Abraham  Lincoln.  Gently,  he 
consoles  Lavinia.  Finally  accepting  the 
truth,  she  runs  off  to  join  her  husband. 


“Incident  on  a dirt  road  during  the 
month  of  April,  the  year  1865.  As  we’ve 
already  pointed  out,  it’s  a road  that 
won’t  be  found  on  a map,  but  it’s  one  of 
many  that  lead  in  and  out  of  the 
Twilight  Zone.  ” 


“Mr.  Jesse  Cardiff,  who  became  a 
legend  by  beating  one,  but  who  has 
found  out  after  his  funeral  that  being 
the  best  of  anything  carries  with  it  a 
special  obligation  to  keep  on  proving  it. 
Mr.  Fats  Brown,  on  the  other  hand, 
having  relinquished  the  champion’s 
mantle,  has  gone  fishing.  These  are  the 
ground  rules  in  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 


S9 


71.  THE  MIRROR 


Written  by  Rod  Serling 

Producer:  Buck  Houghton 

Director:  Don  Medford 

Dir.  of  Photography:  George  T.  Clemens 

No  music  credit 

Cast 

Ramos  Clemente:  Peter  Falk 
Cristo:  Tony  Carbone 
D’Allesandro:  Richard  Karlan 
Tabal:  Arthur  Batanides 
Garcia:  Rodolfo  Hoyos 
General  DeCruz:  Will  Kuluva 
Priest:  Vladimir  Sokoloff  * 

Guard:  Val  Ruffino 


72.  THE  GRAVE 


Written  and  directed 

by  Montgomery  Pittman 

Producer:  Buck  Houghton 

Dir.  of  Photography:  George  T.  Clemens 

No  music  credit 

Cast 

Conny  Miller:  Lee  Marvin 
Mothershed:  Strother  Martin 
Johnny  Rob:  James  Best 
Steinhart:  Lee  Van  Cleef 
Ira  Broadly:  Stafford  Rep 
lone:  Ellen  Willard 
Jasen:  William  Challee 
Corcoran:  Larry  Johns 
Pinto  Sykes:  Richard  Geary 


90 


“These  are  the  faces  of  Ravnos  Clemente, 
a year  ago  a beardless,  nameless  worker 
of  the  dirt  who  plodded  behind  a mule, 
farrowing  someone  else’s  land.  And  he 
looked  up  at  a hot  Central  American 
sun  and  he  pledged  the  impossible.  He 
made  a vow  that  he  would  lead  an 
avenging  army  against  the  tyranny  that 
put  the  ache  in  his  back  and  the  anguish 
in  his  eyes,  and  now,  one  year  later,  the 
dream  of  the  impossible  has  become  a 
fact.  In  fast  a moment  we  will  look  deep 
into  this  mirror  and  see  the  aftermath 
of  a rebellion ..  .in  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 

After  seizing  power,  Clemente  is  told 
by  General  D^ruz,  the  deposed  tyrant, 
that  a magic  mirror  in  his  office  reveals 
the  faces  of  one’s  assassins.  In  it, 
Clemente  sees  his  compatriots 
advancing  on  him  with  machine  gun, 
knives,  and  poison.  He  kills  them  all, 
but  this  brings  him  no  sense  of  security. 
When  a priest  tells  him  that  the  people 
are  appalled  by  the  round-the-clock 
executions  he  has  ordered,  Clemente 
replies  that  the  people  are  not  his 
concern,  that  he  sees  assassins 


“Normally,  the  old  man  would  be 
correct:  this  would  be  the  end  of  the 
story.  We’ve  had  the  traditional  shoot- 
out on  the  street  and  the  bad  man  will 
soon  be  dead.  But  some  men  of  legend 
and  folk  tale  have  been  known  to 
continue  having  their  way  even  after 
death.  The  outlaw  and  killer  Pinto 
Sykes  was  such  a person,  and  shortly 
we’ll  see  how  he  introduces  the  toum, 
and  a man  named  Conny  Miller  in 
particular,  to  the  Twilight  Zone.  ’’ 

After  Sykes  is  gunned  down  by  a group 
of  townspeople.  Miller— a gunman 
hired  by  the  town  to  track  Sykes  down 
but  who  never  caught  up  with  him 
(perhaps  by  choice)— learns  that  on  his 
deathbed  Sykes  vowed  to  reach  up  and 
grab  Miller  if  he  ever  came  near  his 
grave.  Johnny  Rob  and  Steinhart  bet 
Miller  he  won’t  have  the  courage  to 
visit  Sykes’s  grave.  Determined  to  win 
the  bet.  Miller  goes  to  the  grave,  kneels 
down,  and  plunges  a knife  into  the 
earth  to  prove  he  was  there.  But  as  he 
rises,  something  grabs  him  and  pulls 


everywhere  and  is  constantly  afraid. 
The  priest  tells  him  that  tyrants  have 
only  one  real  enemy,  “the  one  they 
never  recognize— until  too  late.”  He 
exits.  Now,  Clemente  spies  his  own 
reflection  in  the  mirror,  shatters  it, 
then  shoots  himself.  The  priest  rushes 
in.  “The  last  assassin,”  he  says.  “And 
they  never  learn.  They  never  seem  to 
learn.” 

“Ramos  Clemente,  a would-be  god  in 
dungarees,  strar^gled  by  an  illusion, 
that  wiU-o’-the-wisp  mirage  that 
dangles  from  the  sky  in  front  of  the  eyes 
of  all  ambitious  men,  all  tyrants— and 
any  resemblance  to  tyrants  living  or 
dead  is  hardly  coincidental,  whether  it 
be  here  or  in  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 


him  down.  The  next  morning,  Johnny 
Rob,  Steinhart,  and  several  others  find 
Miller  dead  beside  the  grave.  What 
happened  seems  clear:  the  wind  blew 
Miller’s  coat  over  the  grave,  in  the  dark 
he  stuck  his  knife  through  it,  when  he 
tried  to  rise  his  coat  pulled  on  him— and 
the  shock  killed  him.  But  then  Sykes’s 
sister  lone  raises  a disquieting  fact:  the 
previous  night  the  wind  was  blowing 
away  from  the  gi’ave! 

“Final  comment:  you  take  this  with  a 
grain  of  salt  or  a shovelful  of  earth,  as 
shadow  or  substance,  we  leave  it  up  to 
you.  And  for  any  further  research  check 
under  ‘G’ for  ‘ghost’ in  the  Twilight 
Zone.”  jB 


Photo  courtesy  Ithaca  Colleoe  School  of  Communlcattor>s 


TTie 
Big,  Tall 

Wish 

by  Rod  Serling 


THE  ORIGINAL 
TELEVISION  SCRIPT 
FIRST  AIRED  ON  CBS-TV 
APRIL  8, 1960 


T TT  ^ C S S T C T E L L A 7 


CAST 

Bolie  Jackson Ivan  Dixon 

Henry Steven  Perry 

Frances Kim  Hamilton 

Mlzell Walter  Burke 

Thomas Henry  Scott 

Announcer CarlMcIntlre 

Referee Frankie  Van 

Opponent Charles  Horvath 

1.  EXT.  NEW  YORK  STREET 
NIGHT  LONG  ANGLE 
SHOT  LOOKING  DOWN 

At  a row  of  tenements.  It’s  a 
typical  street  scene,  hot  summer 
night,  people  sitting  out  on 
curbstones  and  front  porches, 
but  almost  motionless  except 
for  desultory  fanning  and  the 
movement  of  rocking  babies. 

2.  MED.  CLOSE  SHOT  STEPS 
OF  A BROWNSTONE 

An  evening  newspaper  lies 
spread  out  over  a sleeping  man’s 
face.  The  paper  is  open  to  the 
sports  page.  We  see  the  headline, 
“Bolie  Jackson  Tries  Comeback 
Tonight.” 

3.  MOVING  SHOT  UP  THE 
STEPS 

Toward  the  front  door  as  we 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

4.  INT.  BOLIE  JACKSON’S 
BEDROOM 

He’s  dressing  In  front  of  a 
bureau  mirror,  a stocky, 
muscular  thlrty-flve-year-old 
Negro  just  putting  on  his  shirt. 


We  see  the  muscles  ripple  on  an 
athlete’s  back  and  shoulders; 
the  sense  of  grace  with  which  he 
stands  examining  himself  In  the 
mirror.  Behind  him  Is  the  same 
newspaper  seen  outdoors  with 
his  name  In  the  headlines. 

6.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE  HIS 
REFLECTION  IN  THE 
MIRROR 

As  he  studies  himself,  touches 
little  scars  that  can  be  dimly 
seen  over  his  eyes,  his  temples, 
one  near  his  chin;  then  the  lump 
on  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  where 
bones  have  been  shattered  and 
then  shattered  again. 

NARRATOR’S  VOICE 
In  this  corner  of  the 
unlverse,a  prize  fighter 
named  Bolie  Jackson,  one 
hundred  and  eighty-three 
pounds  and  an  hour  and  a 
half  away  from  a comeback  at 
St.  Nick’s  Arena.  Mr.  Bolie 
Jackson,  who  by  the 
standards  of  his  profession  is 
an  aging,  over-the-hlll  relic  of 
what  was  and  who  now  sees  a 
reflection  of  a man  who  has 
left  too  many  pieces  of  his 
youth  in  too  many  stadiums 
for  too  many  years  before  too 
many  screaming  people, 
(pause) 

Mr.  Bolie  Jackson,  who  might 
do  well  to  look  for  some  gentle 
magic  in  the  hard-surfaced 
glass  that  stares  back  at  him. 


6.  PAN  SHOT  TO  THE 
CORNER  OF  'THE  MtRROR 

Where  we  see  the  reflection  of 
little  Henry  Temple,  a ten-year- 
old  Negro  boy  who  sits  on  the 
bed  and  stares  at  the  fighter. 

THEN  FADE  TO  BLACK: 

OPENING  BILLBOARD 
FIRST  COMMERCIAL 
FADE  IN: 

7.  INT.  OF  ROOM  NIGHT 

Henry  continues  to  sit  on  the 
bed,  watching  Bolie  button  up 
his  shirt. 

HENRY 

You  feelln’  .good,  Bolie? 

(he  folds  out  his  little  fists) 
Feelln’  sharp?  Take  a tiger 
tonight,  huh,  Bolie? 

Bolie  smiles  gently  at  the  little 
boy’s  reflection  In  the  mirror 
and  he  apes  the  little  boy’s 
gesture. 

BOLIE 

Take  a tiger,  Henry.  Gonna 
take  me  a tiger.  Left,  right, 
one  In  the  stomach,  then  lift 
him  up  by  the  tall  and  throw 
’im  out  to  the  ninth  row. 

The  little  boy  grins,  gets  up  off 
the  bed,  walks  over  to  the 
dresser. 

HENRY 

You’re  lookin’  good,  Bolie. 
You’re  lookin’  sharp. 

Bolle’s  smile  fades  ever  so 
slightly.  He  turns  to  look  at  the 


92 


© 1960  by  Rod  Seriing  Photos  courtesy  Serlioo  Archives.  Ithaca  College  School  of  Corumunications 


little  boy,  reaches  down  and 
cups  his  little  chin,  presses  It 
gently. 

BOLIE 

You  gonna  watch? 

HENRY 

You  foolin’?  I’ll  yell  so  loud 
you’ll  hear  me  all  the  way  to 
St.  Nick’s. 

Bo  lie  has  to  laugh  In  spite  of 
himself.  He  rubs  the  t>oy’s  hair 
and  goes  back  to  buttoning  his 
shirt  In  the  mirror. 

8.  CLOSE  SHOT  HIS 
REFLECTION 

As  he  stares  at  himself  intensely 
j again.  He  touches  one  or  two  of 
j the  scars. 

I BOLIE 

j (softly,  reflectively) 
i Fighter  don’t  need  a 
I scrapbook,  Henry.  Want  to 
j know  about  what  he’s  done? 

, Where  he’s  fought?  Read  It  on 
I his  face.  He’s  got  the  whole 
j story  cut  Into  hls  flesh, 
j (he  touches  the  scar  over  one 
i of  hls  eyes) 

I St.  Louis,  1949.  Guy  named 
! Sailor  Levitt.  Real  fast  boy. 

I (touches  the  bridge  of  the  nose) 
That  was  Memorial  Stadium, 
Syracuse,  New  York.  Italian 
boy,  fought  like  Henry 
Armstrong.  All  hands  and 
arms,  just  like  a windmill  all 
over  you.  First  time  I ever 
had  my  nose  broken  twice  In 
one  fight. 

(now  he  touches  the  thin  scar 
near  hls  ear) 

Move  south,  Henry.  Miami, 
Florida.  Boy  got  me  up 
against  a ring  post.  Did  this 
with  hls  laces. 

He  turns  to  look  down  at  the 
little  boy  who  stares  at  him 
grimly  and  unhappily  and  with 
a vast,  abiding  concern 
BOLIE 

On  the  face,  Henry,  that’s 
where  you  read  It.  Start  In 
1947,  then  move  across. 
Pittsburgh,  Boston,  Syracuse, 
(he  touches  each  scar  then 
closes  his  eyes  and  keeps  two 


fingers  pressed  against  them 
and  then  very,  very,  softly) 
Tired  old  man,  Henry.  Tired 
old  man  tryln’  to  catch  a bus. 
But  the  bus  already  gone.  Left 
a coupla  years  ago. 

(he  opens  hls  eyes  and  looks 
down  at  the  boy) 

Hands  all  heavy.  Legs  all 
rubbery.  Short  breath.  One 
eye  not  so  good.  And  there  I 
go  running  down  the  street 
tryln’  to  catch  this  bus  to 
glory. 

The  little  boy  compulsively 
grabs  Bolle’s  arm.’ 

HENRY 

(with  the  quiet  Intensity  of 
a boy) 

Bolle,  you  gonna  catch  a tiger 
tonight.  I’m  gonna  make  a 
wish.  I’m  gonna  make  a big, 
tall  wish.  And  you  ain’t  gonna 
get  hurt  none  either.  I’m 
gonna  make  a wish  that  you 
don’t  get  hurt  none  either. 

You  hear,  Bolle?  I don’t  want 
you  gettln’  hurt  none.  You’ve 
been  hurt  enough  already  and 
you’re  my  friend,  Bolle. 

You’re  my  good  and  close 
friend. 

Bolle  turns  from  the  mirror  to 
kneel  down  In  front  of  the  boy. 

He  holds  him  by  the  shoulders 
and  stares  at  him  and  then  very 
gently  and  quietly  he  kisses  the 
boy  on  the  side  of  the  face,  rises, 
goes  over  to  the  bed,  takes  an 
overnight  bag  from  it,  crosses 
the  room  and  starts  out. 

9.  EXT.  HALL  AND  STAIRS 
LONG  SHOT  LOOKING 
DOWN  THE  STEPS 

As  Bolle,  carrying  hls  overnight 
bag,  walks  down  toward  the  foot 
of  the  steps.  Henry’s  mother,  an 
attractive  thlrty-year-old 
woman,  comes  out  of  her 
apartment  and  smiles  at  Bolle  as 
he  walks  down  to  her.  Then  she 
looks  up  toward  the  top  of  the 
steps  where  Henry  leans  against 
the  banister. 

BOLIE 

(grins) 


You  got  quite  a boy  there, 
Frances.  You  got  quite  a boy. 
(he  looks  over  hls  shoulder  at 
him  briefly  then  back  to 
the  mother) 

Talks  like  a little  old  man, 
you  know?  I’m  hls  “good  and 
close  friend,”  that’s  what  he 
says.  Real . . . real  intense. 

I’m  hls  good  and  close  friend. 
FRANCES 

You’re  good  to  him,  Bolle. 
You’re  real  good  to  him. 

Takln’  him  to  ballgames  all 
the  time.  Takln’  him  out  for 
walks. 

(she  looks  up  the  steps  toward 
the  little  boy  and  In  a 
soft  voice) 

Hard  for  a boy  not  to  have  a 
father.  He  never  did  know  his. 

10.  TWO  SHOT  FRANCES 
AND  BOLIE 

As  she  instinctively  touches  hls 
arm. 

FRANCES 

He  won’t  be  goln’  to  bed 
tonight  till  you  get  back.  Take 
care  yourself,  Bolle.  Don’t 
get  hurt  none. 

BOLIE 

(with  a crooked  little  smile) 

I’ll  work  hard  on  it. 

He  turns,  looks  up  the  steps 
again. 

11.  CLOSE  SHOT  HENRY 

He  walks  halfway  down  the 
steps  and  stands  there,  hls  little 
face  intense. 

HENRY 

I’m  gonna  make  a wish,  Bolle. 
I’m  gonna  make  a wish 
nothin’  happens  to  you.  So 
don’t  you  be  afraid,  Bolle. 
.Understand?  Don’t  you  be 
afraid. 

The  little  boy  continues  down 
the  steps.  Into  hls  apartment, 
shutting  the  door. 

12.  TWO  SHOT  FRANCES 
AND  BOLLE 

PRANCES 

(softly) 

You’re  hls  friend,  Bolle.  He’s 
got  you  in  a shrine. 


93 


13.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

BOLIE 

Scared  old  man  who  don’t 
remember  nothin’  except  how 
to  bleed. 

(he  shakes  his  head) 

I don’t  fit  In  no  shrine, 
Prances. 

(a  pause,  softly) 

But  you  tell  him,  Frances . . . 
you  tell  him  how  I’m  obliged 
for  his  wish.  That’s  what  1 
need  right  now.  ^ 

(he  looks  down  at  his  hands, 
clenches  and  unclenches  his 
fists) 

A little  magic. 


PRANCES 

He’s  been  talkin’  about 
makln’  a wish  all  night.  He’s 
all  the  time  makln’  wishes, 
Bolle.  1 see  him  standln’  there 
In  his  bedroom  In  the  dark 
lookin’  out  the  window.  I 
come  in  real  quiet  and  1 say, 
“Henry,  boy,  why  don’t  you 
go  to  sleep?’’  And  he  turns  to 
me  with  that  serious  little 
face  of  his  and  he  says, 
“Makln’  a wish,  mama:’’ 
Makln’  a wish  for  this. 

Makln’  a wish  for  that.  Oh, 
he’s  all  the  time  wlshln.’  Why 
just  the  other  night  - 

14.  CLOSE  SHOT  FRANCES 
As  she  turns  away,  a very 
reflective,  puzzled  look  on  her 
face  as  she  recollects  something. 
BOLIE 
What? 

FRANCES 

(With  a kind  of  lightly  scoffing 
at  herself  laughter) 

I needed  fifteen  dollars  for  the 
rent.  Henry  said  he  was 
gonna  make  the  big,  tall  wish. 
That’s  his  biggest  kind,  the 
big,  tall  wish.  He  don’t  waste 


that  wish  on  just  anything. 
That’s  what  he  calls  the  most 
Important  one. 

(she  pauses  for  a moment,  again 
thoughtful) 

That  was  last  Friday,  and  a 
woman  I did  some  nursing 
for  out  on  the  Island  sent  me 
a check. 

(she  looks  at  Bolle  closely) 

A check  for  fifteen  dollars. 

15.  TWO  SHOT  FRANCES 
AND  BOLIE 

As  they  stand  there  for  a 
moment  silently. 

BOLIE 

(shakes  his  head) 

Little  boys.  Little  boys  with 
their  heads  full  up  with 
dreams.  And  when  doesTt 
happen,  Prances?  When  do 
they  suddenly  know  there 
ain’t  any  magic?  When  does 
somebody  push  their  face 
down  on  the  sidewalk  and  say 
to  ’em  “Hey,  little  boy  - It’s 
concrete.  That’s  what  the 
world  is  made  out  of.  Concrete 
and  gutters  and  dirty  old 
buildings  and  tears  for  every 
minute  you’re  alive.  ’ ’ 

16.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
BOLIE 

His  face  Is  twisted  and 
contorted. 

BOLIE 

When  do  they  find  out  that 
you  can  wish  your  life  away? 

17.  TWO  SHOT  BOLIE  AND 
FRANCES 

She  shakes  her  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side. 

FRANCES 
(very  gently) 

Good  luck  tonight,  Bolle.  We’ll 
be  waitin’  for  you. 

BOLIE 

(nods) 

Sure.  Sure,  Frances. 

(he  nods  toward  the  closed  door 
of  the  apartment) 

Kiss  him  good  night  for  me. 

Then  he  turns  and  walks  out. 

18.  EXT.  BROWNSTONE 
NIGHT 


As  Bolle  comes  down  the  steps. 
Several  people  call  out  to  him 
and  wish  him.  luck.  He  responds 
with  a wave  of  his  hand  and 
then  contlnuejs  down  to  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  and  down  the 
sidewalk. 

19.  TRACK  SHOT  WITH  HIM 
AS  HE  -ViTALKS 

A few  feet,  then  stops,  turns. 

i20.  LONG  SHOT  HENRY 

Staring  out  at  him  from  the 
window. 

21.  CLOSE  EIHOT  BOLIE 

He  returns  the  stare,  forces  a 
smile,  holds  up  his  hand  In  a 
kind  of  partial  wave,  then  turns 
and  continues  down  the 
sidewalk  as  we 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

22.  INT.  DRESSING  ROOM 
ARENA  PAN  SHOT 
ACROSS  ROOM 

This  is  a typical  second-rate 
sweat  and  liniment  room  with  a 
smelly  dressing  table,  a shower 
room  flanked  by  a dirty  canvas, 
a big  towel  container  oozing 
with  some  bloody  remnants  of 
the  card  to  that  hour.  A battered 
fighter  is  just  being  led  out  of 
the  room  as  we  pick  up  Bolle, 
now  In  his  trunks  sitting  on  the 
rubbing  table.  A thin,  pigeon- 
chested, vinegar-faced  old  cut- 
man  named  Mlzell  Is  finishing 
the  process  of  wrapping  the 
bandages  around  his  hands. 
Across  the  room  Bolle’ s 
manager  of  that  evening  leans 
against  the  wall  smoking  a big, 
cheap,  billowing  cigar.  This  Is  a 
greasy,  dlrty-Leoklng  man 
named  Thomas.  Mlzell  finishes  . 
the  wrapping,  holds  up  both  his 
palms. 

MIZELL 

Try  it,  Bolle. 

Bolle  flexes  his  knuckles,  hits 
Mizell’s  palms  several  times, 
then  nods. 

BOLIE 

Feels  okay.  Peels  good,  Joe. 
Thanks. 


Mlzell  nods,  touches  them  up 
once  again,  then  turns  to 
Thomas. 

MIZELL 

He’s  all  ready. 

Thomas  pours  out  a long  stream 
of  cigar  smoke  and  nods 
disinterestedly.  Bolie  waves  his 
hands  through  the  smoke. 

BOLIE 

Butt  It  out,  will  you,  Thomas? 
I want  to  breathe. 

THOMAS 

(deliberately  takes  another  big 
deep  drag) 

You  hired  me  for  the  night, 
Bolie.  It’s  a package  deal-  me 
and  the  cigar. 

BOLIE 

(takes  a step  toward  him) 

I told  you  to  butt  it  out! 

23.  CLOSE  SHOT  L-HOMAS 

As  he  studies  him. 

24.  CLOSE  SHOT  130LIE 

His  face  a mask. 

25.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
ALL  THREE  MICN 

As  Thomas  takes  the  cigar  out, 
butts  It  against  the  wall,  then 
crimps  the  end  of  it  with  his 
fingers  and  sticks  It  in  his 
pocket. 

THOMAS 

Feisty  little  old  man.  Older 
they  get  - the  louder  they 
talk.  The  more  they  want- 
(and  then  he  spits  this  out) 

And  the  less  chance  they  got 
to  get  it. 

BOLIE 

How’d  I get  .you  tonight? 
THOMAS 

I’m  a bargain,  Bolie.  I’m  the 
expert  on  has-beens. 

BOLIE 

(shakes  his  head) 

I’ve  seen  your  boys.  Catchers, 
aren’t  they?  Guarantee  two 
rounds  each.  Shovel  them  in, 
shovel  them  out.  Then  sew 
them  together  for  the  next 
time. 

THOMAS 
(laughs) 


That’s  the  only  way  to  do  It. 
Month  or  so  from  now  maybe 
I’ll  sign  you  at  the  back  door. 
Why  not?  You’re  long  gone, 
Bolie.  You’ve  had  it.  Wait’ll 
after  tonight.  You’ll  want  to 
get  In  the  stable  too.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  guarantee  two 
rounds.  Two,  three  prelims 
every  month.  Do  that 
standing  on  your  head,  can’t 
you? 

BOLIE 

(takes  a step  toward  him) 

I thought  the  smell  came  with 
the  cigar. 

(he  shakes  his  head) 

You  wear  It  all  over  yuh.  You 
stink,  Thomas. 

THOMAS 

You  tell  ’em,  champ.  You  tell 
’em. 

There’s  a knock  on  the  door  and 
a muffled  voice  calls  out. 

VOICE 

Jackson,  ten  minutes. 
THOMAS 

He’ll  be  there. 

Bolie  goes  back  over  to  sit  on  the 
dressing  table.  Mlzell  starts  to 
knead  his  shoulders  and  arms. 
Thomas  stares  at  him  from 
across  the  room. 

BOLIE 

What  about  tonight?  What 
should  I look  out  for?  I only 
seen  this  boy  fight  once.  That 
was  a coupla  years  ago. 
j THOMAS 
I (shrugs) 

! I ain’t  never  seen  him. 

i 26.  CLOSE  SHOT  MIZELL 

As  he  looks  over  Bolie ’s 
shoulder  sharply,  recognizing 
the  lie.  Then  he  goes  back  to 
deliberately  kneading  Bolle’s 
shoulders. 

27.  FULL  SHOT 

I Bolie  looks  from  one  to  the 
other,  deliberately  takes  Mlzell’s 
hands  off  him,  rises  again  and 
walks  over  to  Thomas,  lashes 
out  with  his  bandaged  hands, 

; pulls  Thomas  to  him. 


BOLIE 

You’ve  watched  him  fight. 
You’ve  seen  him  six  times  the 
past  year.  You  piece  of 
garbage  you,  Thomas.  You’re 
bettln’  on  him,  aren’t  you? 

He  hauls  off  and  backhands 
Thomas  across  the  face. 

MIZELL 
I (shouts) 

Bolie! 

BOLIE 

(still  hanging  tight  on  Thomas’s 
shirt  front) 

It  ain’t  enough  he  sells 


wrecks  by  the  pound.  He 
comes  in  here  for  a dirty 


j twenty  bucks  supposed  to 
j help  me  and  then  bets  on  the 
I other  guy.  I may  be  a bum 
I upstairs  in  another  ten 
! minutes  - but  I ’ m gonna  fight 

I a beautiful  first  round  right 
; here. 

i THOMAS 

‘ (squirming)  j 

i Bolie,  you  touch  me  again  and  < 
j I’ll  have  you  up  for  ten  years . 

I I swear  to  you,  Bolie  - I’ll  fix 
! your  wagon  good  - 
i Bolie  backhands  him  again. 

I 28.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE’S 

FACE  j 

Distorted,  angry,  perspiring  | 

with  emotion,  with  hate. 

29.  CLOSE  SHOT  THOMAS’S 

FACE  I 

Bl£-pored,  frightened.  | 

THOMAS 

(screeching) 

Lay  off  me,  Bolie.  Lay  off  me. 
You  crummy  tanker  you  - i 

30.  TWO  SHOT  ' 


9S 


The  Big,  TMl  Wish 


Bolie  hauls  off  and  swings  and 
at  that  moment  Thomas  lurches 
from  his  grasp. 

31.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 

As  Bolie’ s hand  hits  the  concrete 
wall  and  there’s  a loud, 
horrifying  crack.  Bolie  leans 
against  the  wall,  eyes  closed, 
and  very  slowly  lets  his  right 
hand  drop.  Mlzell -scurries  over 
to  him  to  grab  it  and  examine  it. 
Thomas  exits  the  room  like  a 
mlnute-mller. 

32.  CLOSE  TWO  SHOT 
MIZELL  AND  BOLIE 

Mlzell  looks  up  with  aged 
compassion  and  very  wise  eyes. 

MIZELL 

(gently) 

It  wasn’t  enough  you  hacj  to 
spot  him  all  those  years, 

Bolie.  It  wasn’t  enough,  huh? 
Now  you  got  to  walk  in  with 
four  busted  knuckles. 

There’s  a knock  on  the  door. 
VOICE 

Okay,  Jackson,  you’re  on! 
MIZELL 

(takes  a step  away) 

Well? 

BOLIE 

(turns  from  the  wall,  holds  his 
hands  up) 

Well  nothing.  Let’s  do  it. 

Mizell  takes  the-gloves  hanging 
on  the  end  of  the  rubbing  table 
and  starts  to  put  them  on, 
looking  up  intermittently  into 
Bolle’s  numb,  emotionless  face. 

33.  CLOSE  ANGLE  SHOT 
THE  TWO  MEN 

Their  faces  close  together. 

BOLIE 

Poor  little  Henry  Temple.  I’m 
putting  two  strikes  on  all  his 
magic.  Two  strikes. 

MIZELL 

(looks  up,  frowns) 

Whose? 

BOLIE 

(shakes  his  head  softly) 

Nothing.  Nothing,  Joe.  There 
ain’t  no.such  thing  as  magic. 

FADE  TO  BLACK: 


ACT  TWO 

FADE  ON: 

34.  INT.  STADHTM  PAN 
SHOT  ACROSS  FRONT 
ROW  OF  SPECTATORS 

As  seen  through  a smoky  din  of 
a cheap  fight  card.  These  are  the 
faces  of  a mob  who  want  blood, 
violence,  action.  Jaws  go  up  and 
down  in  unison  with  the  blows 
landed  in  the  ring  a few  feet  in 
front  of  them.  There’s  a cigar,  a 
plug  of  tobacco,  the  scream  of 
excitement  from  a floozie  at  the 
arm  of  a checkered-suited  cheap 
dandy.  They  all  share  one  thing 
in  common:  an  intense  desire  to 
see  some  flesh  stripped  off  and 
have  it  come  with  pain.  They 
suddenly  jump  to  their  feet 
screaming  as  we 

CUT  TO: 

35.  INT.  RING  ANGLE  SHOT 
LOOKING  OVER 
FIGHTER’S  SHOULDER 
AT  BOLIE 

On  the  ropes.  He’s  being 
pounded  with  lefts  and  rights. 

At  the  fourth  smash  his 
mouthpiece  flies  out. 

36.  TILT  ANGLE  FAT  MAN 

Screaming  through  his  clenched 
cigar. 

FAT  MAN 

Use  your  right,  you  tanker! 

37.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

As  he’s  pounded  again  in  the 
face. 

38.  ANGLE  SHOT  FLOOZIE 

FLOOZIE 

(screaming) 

Hit  him!  Hit  him! 

39.  CLOSE  SHOT  FIGHTER 

As,  arm  weary,  he  continues  fo 
pound  Bolie. 

40.  TILT  SHOT  TEENAGE 
BOY 

Eating  popcorn,  his  eyes  wide, 
agape  as  he  stares  at  the 
bloodletting  in  the  ring,  eating 
fistfuls  of  popcorn  totally 
unconsciously. 

41.  CLOSE  SHOT  HEAVILY 
RINGED  HAND  OF 

FAT  MAN 


As  he  keeps  pounding  his  fist 
into  his  palm  in  unison  with  the 
blows  in  the  ring. 


CUT  TO: 


42.  INT.  HEINRY’S 


APARTlklENT  CLOSE 
SHOT  THE  BOY 

Standing  several  feet  away  from 
a television  screen  in  a tiny, 
darkened  living  room.  Beyond 
him  we  can  sese  the  screen  and  a 
vague  moving  picture  of  two 
men  in  the  ring.  The  crowded 
noises  up  and  down  intermit- 
tently and  over  it  we  can  hear  a 
ringside  announcer’s  voice. 

ANNOUNCER’S  VOICE 

Another  left,  another  right, 
and  Jackson’s  knees  are  very 
wobbly.  He’s  hurt.  Bolie 
Jackson  is  definitely  hurt. 
Simmons  moves  in  on  him 
again.  Them  goes  one  to  the 
side  of  the  head.  One  to  the 
breadbasket.  A left  and  right 
to  the  head  again.  Oh,  is  that 
boy  hurt.  Is  that  boy  hurt 

43.  CLOSE  SHOT  HENRY 

As  he  whirls  around,  his  back  to 
the  set,  hands  to  the  side  of  his 
face,  clutching  at  his  cheeks. 

44.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
HENRY 

Frances  can  be  seen  in  another 
part  of  the  room  now  staring  at  s 
her  son,  shaking  her  head  from  j 
side  to  side  and  finally  closing  ( 
her  eyes. 

45.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
AGAIN  HENRY 

His  little  face  contorting,  tears 
in  his  eyes  as  he  turns. 

46.  MOVING  SHOT  WITH  HIM 

As  he  races  to  the  set,  almost 
buries  his  face  against  the 


96 


screen  and  screams  Into  It. 
HENRY 

Bollel  Bollel  Bollel 

ABRUPT  CUT  TO; 

47.  CANVAS  OF  TH]5  RING 

As  Bolle’s  head  falls  Into  the 
frame  and  lands  with  a dull 
thud  as  he’s  knocked  down. 

48.  EXTREME  TIGEIT  CLOSE 
SHOT  HISFAC15 

As  he  looks  up  toward  the 
referee. 

49.  ANGLE  SHOT  LOOKING 
UP  BOLIE’S  P.O.V. 

The  referee  stands  over  him 
strangely  out  of  focus,  the 
central  ring  light  over  his 
shoulder  highlighting  him  in  an 
odd  haze  as  his  arm  goes  up  and 
down  beginning  the  count.  His 
voice  seems  hollow  and  distant 
as  he  counts  out. 

REFEREE 

One.  Two.  Three. 
CUT  TO: 

50. -52.  SEVERAL  DIFFER- 

ENT ANGLES 
OF  SPECTAKDRS 

As  they  watch  with  rapt 
attention,  chewing,  smoking, 
fidgeting  like  nervous  animals 
at  a stockyard. 

53.  ANGLE  SHOT  LOOKING 
DOWN  FROM  OVISR  THE 
REFEREE’S  SHOULDER 

As  he  continues  to  bring  his  arm 
down. 

ABRUPT  CUT  TO: 

54.  CLOSE  SHOT  CENTRAL 
RING  LIGHT 

As  it  suddenly  goes  In  and  out  of 
focus  and  there’s  an  absolute 
cessation  of  noises  and 
gradually  the  crowd  noise  comes 
up  again.  The  CAMERA  PANS 
DOWN  to  a back  of  a fighter 
standing  there  with  his  arm 
being  raised  by  the  referee. 
Beyond  him  we  see  handlers, 
cops,  spectators  scrambling  over 
the  ring  ropes.  The  CAMERA 
MOVES  AROUND  IN  AN  ARC 
until  we’re  looking  at  Bolle 
standing  on  his  feet  with  an  arm 
raised.  He  looks  right  and  left. 


up  and  down,  then  suddenly 
turns  to  stare  at  something 
beyond  the  camera. 

56.  MOVING  SHOT  ACROSS 
THE  RING 

Until  we’re  close  on  the  other 
fighter  In  exactly  the  same 
position  Bolle  was,  lying  on  his 
back,  his  handlers  have  just 
reached  him  and  are  now 
pulling  him  to  his  feet. 

56.  MOVING  SHOT  BOLIE 
As  he  starts  out  of  the  ring.  He 
looks  dazed,  totally  out  of  touch 
with  reality. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

57.  INT.  DRESSING  ROOM 

Bolle  sits  on  the  dressing  table, 
now  fully  clothed,  with  his  coat 
hanging  over  his  arm.  He 
continues  to  look  dazed  and 
unsure.  Mizell  comes  in  with  a 
load  of  dirty  towels  which  he 
dumps  In  the  container.  Then  he 
looks  across  at  Bolle. 

58.  TRACK  SHOT  WITH  HIM 

As  he  walks  over  to  the  fighter, 
grins  in  his  vinegar  way, 
chuckles  at  him. 

MIZELL 

You  done  dandy. 

59.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

As  he  stares  at  him. 

BOLIE 

Joe. 

(he  holds  up  his  right  hand  and 
flexes  his  wrist) 

You  were  wrong.  Just  bruised 
I guess,  huh?  Hurt  like 
anything,  but  somebody  said 
I got  him  with  It.  Couldn’t 
have  been  broken  after  all. 
MIZELL 

Who  said  It  was? 

BOLIE 

(an  odd  look) 

You  said.  And  It  felt  like  it, 
too.  I could  feel  the  knuckles 
coming  up  through  the 
bandages.  I coulda  sworn  It 
was  busted.  And  when  he 
knocked  me  down  - 

60.  CLOSE  SHOT  MIZELL 
As  he  whirls  around  to  stare  at 
Bolle. 


MIZELL 

What?  He  did  what? 

Bolle  gets  up  off  the  table,  takes 
a few  steps  over  to  him. 

BOLIE 

Knocked  me  down,  Joe.  When 
he  knocked  me  down.  I don’t 
even  remember  getting  up. 
Next  thing  I knew,  there  he 
was  at  my  feet. 


61.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

As  he  stands  there  waiting,  his 
eyes  asking  a question. 

62.  CLOSE  SHOT  MIZELL 

As  his  eyes  narrow  and  he 
frowns. 

MIZELL 

We  was  in  different  arenas 
tonight  together. 

(he  shakes  his  head) 

You  didn’t  get  knocked  down, 
Bolle.  You  was  never  off  your 
feet. 

63.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
BOLIE 

As  his  head  cocks  to  one  side. 
BOLIE 
I wasn’t? 

64.  REVERSE  ANGLE 
LOOKING  TOWARD 
MIZELL  BOLIE’S  P.O.V. 

MIZELL 

No,  you  sure  wasn’t.  This  one 
you  carried  all  the  way,  baby. 


97 


The  Big,  Tall  Wish 


He  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it. 

66.  REVERSE  ANGLE 

LOOKING  TOWARD  BOLIE 

BOLIE 

Joe? 

(then  Intensely) 

I wasn’t  off  my  feet?  I didn’t 
go  down? 

MIZELL 

Not  once.  Good  night,  old 
timer.  I’m  proud  of  yuh! 

He  turns  and  shuffles  out  of  the 
room. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

66.  EXT.  STREET  NIGHT 
TRACK  SHOT  BOLIE 

As  he  walks  down  the  sidewalk. 

67.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
OVER  HIS  SHOULDER 

As  we  see  him  approaching  the 
front  steps  of  his  brownstone. 

68.  GROUP  SHOT  PEOPLE 
ON  THE  STEPS 

As  they  get  up  and  greet  him. 

MAN  ONE 

Beautiful,  Bolle.  Beautiful. 
WOMAN 

Oh,  you  were  great,  Bolie.  We 
seen  you  on  television.  You 
was  real  great. 

TEENAGER 
(feeling  Bolie’ s muscle) 

Oh  you  clobbered  him,  Bolie. 
That  was  a right!  That  was  a 
real  right! 

69.  MOVING  SHOT  BOLIE 
CLOSE  ON  HIS  FACE 

As  he  goes  through  the  crowd. 
The  plaudits,  the  backslaps,  the 
handshakes.  Continues  up  the 
steps.  He  leaves  them  outside 
and  enters  the  hallway. 

70.  INT.  HALLWAY 

He’s  about  to  start  up  the  steps 
when  he  looks  toward  the  closed 
door  of  Henry’s  apartment.  He 
stands  there  indecisively  for  a 
moment,  then  goes  to  the  door 
and  knocks  on  it  softly.  The  door 
opens  and  Frances  stands  there. 
She  smiles  at  him. 

FRANCES 

You  shoulda  seen  him,  Bolie. 

9t 


He’d  like  to  go  out  of  his  mind 
he  was  so  happy.  Whole 
building  was  shaking-  you’d 
never  believe  it! 

Bolie  looks  over  her  shoulder 
questloningly  into  the  room 

FRANCES 

(as  if  in  answer  to  his  inquiring 
look) 

He’s  up  on  the  roof  waiting 
for  you. 

Bolie  nods,  turns  to  start  up  the 
steps. 

FRANCES 

Send  him  down  soon,  Bolie. 
It’s  real  late. 

Bolie  nods,  starts  up  the  steps. 

71.  EXT.  ROOF  NIGHT 

Just  as  Bolie  comes  outside. 

72.  PAN  SHOT  ACROSS  THE 
ROOF  TO  HENRY 

Who  is  standing  at  the  ledge. 

The  last  diminishing  neon  of  the 
late  night  flashes  on  and  off 
illuminating  the  boy  as  he  turns 
and  walks  over  to  the  fighter. 
Bolie  kneels  down,  grips  the 
boy’s  shoulders. 

BOLIE 

What  do  you  say,  Henry 
Temple? 

HENRY 

You  were  a tiger,  Bolie.  You 
were  a real  tiger. 

BOLIE 

(grins) 

Look  okay? 

HENRY 

Sharp.  Sharp  like  a champ. 
You  was  Louis  and  Armstrong 
and  everybody  all  wrapped  up 
into  one. 

Bolie  starts  to  laugh,  warm,  rich 
laughter  that  floods  out  of  him 
and  the  boy  joins  him  and  they 
hug  one  another.  Then  Bolie 
rises  to  his  feet,  takes  a step 
away  from  the  boy,  pounding 
his  fist  into  his  palm,  shaking 
his  head  at  the  sheer  delight  of  it. 

BOLIE 

Hey,  you  know  somethin’? 
That  boy  musta  hit  me  so  hard 


he  knocked  the  hurt  right 
outa  me! 

(he  laughs,  sliakes  his  head  with 
bewilderment) 

I don’t  remember  a doggone 
thing,  Henry.  I must  have 
really  been  punchy  for  a 
second  because  I thought  he 
had  me  on  my  back.  And  there 
1 was  lookin’  up  at  the  old  ref 
waving  his  arm  down  on  me 
and  I was  staring  up  at  the 
light,  blinkin’  my  eyes.  It 
must  have  been  some  kind  of  a 
dream  or  something  - 
He  stops  abruptly,  staring  at  the 
little  boy’s  face. 

73.  CLOSE  SHOT  HENRY 

As  he  turns  away. 

74.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

As  he  stares  Intensely  at  the  boy. 
He  takes  a step  over  to  him  and 
turns  him  around  to  face  him. 
His  voice  is  strained  and  ■ 
different. 

BOLIE 

Henry?  I was  never  off  my 
feet.  I never  got  knocked 
down. 

The  little  boy  doesn’t  answer.  He 
just  looks  dcwn  at  his  feet.  Bolie 
grips  him  tighter,  shoves  his 
face  close  to  him,  searching  into 
the  boy’s  face. 

BOLIE 

Henry! 

(he  grips  him  tighter) 

Henry,  I was  never  off  my 
feet. 

There’s  a long,  long  silence  and 
still  the  boy  doesn’t  respond. 

75.  ANGLE  SHOT  LOOKING 
UP  TOWARD  BOLIE 

As  he  rises  looking  down  at  the 
boy. 

BOLIE 

(in  a still  voice) 

Henry,  was  I?  Was  I lyin’  on 
my  back  and  on  the  way  out? 

76.  CLOSE  SHOT  HENRY 

He  slowly  nods. 

77.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

BOLIE 

But  nobody  remembers  it. 


Nobody  at  all.  ’Cept  me.  I 
thought  It  happened . . . but  it 
didn’t.  I thought  I v/as  lyin’ 
there  on  my  back  gettln’ 
counted  out,  but  everybody 
tells  me  - 

78.  CLOSE  SHOT  EUNRY 

As  he  moves  very  close  to  the 
man,  looks  up. 

HENRY 

Bolie,  I made  the  big  wish 
then.  I had  to  make  the  big 
wish.  I wished  you  was  never 
knocked  down.  I Just  shut  my 
eyes  and  I ...  I wished  real 
hard.  It  was  magic,  Bolie.  We 
had  to  have  magic  then. 

79.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

As  he  shakes  his  head  back  and 
forth.  His  mouth  forms  the 
word  “no.”  He  takes  a step  away 
from  the  boy,  Henry  follows 
him. 

HENRY 

Had  to,  Bolie.  Nothing  left  for 
us  then.  Had  to  make  a wish. 
Bolle’s  head  goes  back  and 
forth,  disbelieving,  rejecting, 
beyond  any  kind  of  under- 
standing or  logic.  Then  suddenly 
he  grabs  the  boy  In  a fury. 

BOLIE 

Crazy  kid.  You  crazy,  kookle 
kid. 

;(he  shakes  the  boy  fur:.ously) 
Don’t  you  know  there  ain’t  no 
magic?  There  ain’t  no  magic 
or  wishing  or  nothin’  like 
that.  You’re  too  big  to  have 
nutsy  thoughts  like  that. 
You’re  too  big  to  believe  In 
fairy  tales. 

HENRY 

(tears  beginning  to  roll  down 
his  face) 

If  you  wish  hard  enough, 

Bolie,  It’ll  come  true.  If  you 
wish  hard  enough . . . and 
then  believe  - It’ll  stay  that 
way- 

BOLIE 

(continuing  to  shake  the  boy) 
Soihebody  got  to  knock  It  out 
of  you,  don’t  they?  Somebody 
got  to  take  you  by  the  hair  ' 
and  rub  your  face  In  the 


world  and  give  you  a taste 
and  smell  of  the  way  things 
are,  don’t  they?  Listen,  boy. 
I’ve  been  wlshin’  all  my  life. 

You  understand,  Henry?  I got 
a gut  ache  from  wlshin’  and 
all  I got  to  show  for  it  Is  a face 
full  of  scars  and  a head  full  of 
memories  of  all  the  hurt  and 
all  the  misery  I’ve  had  to  eat 
with  and  sleep  with  all  my 
miserable  life.  You  crazy  kid 
you. 

(he  shakes  his  head) 

Crazy,  crazy  kookle  kid.  You 
tellln’  me  you  wished  me  into 
a knockout.  You  tellln’  me  It 
was  magic  that  got  me  off  my 
back.  Well,  now  listen,  boy, 
there  ain’t  no  magic  - no 
magic,  Henry.  I had  that  fight 
cornin’  and  goin’.  I had  it  in 
my  pocket.  I was  the  number 
one  out  there  and  there  ain’t' 
no  such  thing  as  magic  - 

80.  CLOSE  SHOT  HENRY 

As  he  stands  there,  the  tears 

rolling  down  his  face. 

HENRY 

Bolie,  If  you  believe, 
understand?  You’ve  got  to 
believe.  If  you  don’t  believe, 
Bolie,  It  won’t  be  true.  That’s 
the  way  magic  works. 

(he  grabs  the  man  tightly) 

Bolie,  you  got  to  believe. 

Please.  Please  believe. 

BOLIE 

(gripping  the  boy  tightly) 

Little  kook,  that’s  what  you 
are.  That’s  what  you  are, 
Henry,  a little  kook.  How 


come  I get  mixed  up  with 
you?  Ain’t  I got  enough 
trouble  without  gettln’  mixed 
up  with  some  dopey  kid 
that- 

Suddenly  he  stops.  The  man  and 
the  boy  look  at  one  another  and 
then  he  sweeps  the  boy  into  his 
arms  and  holds  him  very  tightly 
and  closely,  closing  his  eyes 
against  the  boy’s  cheek , 

(very,  very  softly) 

Henry,  I can’t  believe.  I’m  too 
old  and  I ’ m too  hurt  to 
believe.  I can’t,  boy.  I Just 
can’t.  Henry,  Henry,  there 
ain’t  no  such  thing  as  magic, 
God' help  us  both,  I wish  there 
were- 

HENRY 

Bolie,  you  got  to  believe. 
BOLIE 

(shakes  his  head) 

I can’t. 

HENRY 

(his  voice  rising  In  a cry) 

You  got  to,  Bolie.  You  got  to 
bellev#  or  else  — 

81.  MOVING  SHOT  AWAY 
FROM  THEM 

As  we  hear  the  boy’s  voice  over 
and  over  again  and  Bolle’s  voice 
rejecting.  The  CAMERA  MOVES 
UP  to  a light  hanging  over  the 
roof  then  DOLLIES  IN  VERY 
CLOSE  to  It,  bringing  it  In  and 
out  of  focus.  Bolle’s  and  Henry’s 
voices  gradually  fade  off  Into  a 
dissonance  as  we 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

82.  THE  BRIGHT  RING 
LIGHT  SHINING  INTO 
THE  CAMERA  PAN 
SHOT  DOWN 

To  Bolie  on  his  back. 

83.  REVERSE  ANGLE 
LOOKING  UP  TOWARD 
REFEREE 

Who  Is  bringing  his  arm  down. 
REFEREE 

Eight.  Nine.  Ten. 

He  swipes  hands  out  In  opposite 
directions  indicating  a 
knockout. 


99 


The  Big,  'lall  Wish 


84.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
THE  RING 

As  the  winning  fighter  Is 
engulfed  by  well-wishers  who 
scramble  up  over  the  ropes. 
Mizell  is  a lone  figure  walking 
tlredly  over  toward  Bolle  who, 
like  some  kind  of  stricken 
animal,  has  risen  to  his  hands 
and  knees  and  looks  around 
blindly  through  the  lights* and 
smoke.  He  allows  Mizell  to  help 
him  to  his  feet  then  he  starts  a 
beaten,  stiff-legged  walk  to  his 
corner. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

86.  EXT.  STREET  NIGHT 

Identical  walking  shot  of  Bolle 
as  he  heads  back  toward  the 
brownstone.  This  time  the  three 
people  are  there  as  before,  but 
the  teenager  and  the  woman 
merely  look  at  him  with  cold, 
accusing  looks.  The  man  sits 
on  the  steps  half  sleeping.  He 
opens  up  one  eye,  looks  up  at 
Bolle  as  he  starts  up  the  steps. 

MAN 

You  shoulda  stood  In  bed. 
How’s  come  you  didn’t  use 
your  right? 

Bolle  looks  down  at  a 
misshapen,  bandaged  right 
hand  and  doesn’t  say  anything. 
He  continues  up  the  steps  and 
goes  on  Inside. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

86.  INT.  HENRY’S 
APARTMENT 

As  Frances  has  just  opened  the 
door  and  Bolle  enters. 

FRANCES 

He’s  In  bed,  Bolle.  That’s  a 


sad  little  boy  In  there. 

BOLIE 

(nods) 

Can  I see  him? 

FRANCES 

Sure.  I expect  he’s  waiting  for 
you. 

Bolle  nods  and  starts  across  the 
room. 

FRANCES 

Bolle? 

He  turns  to  her. 

FRANCES 

I ’ m real  sorry. 

Bolle  nods  and  doesn’t  say 
anything.  He  continues  Into  the 
bedroom. 

87.  INT.  BEDROOM 

Henry  lies  In  bed,  his  eyes  wide 
open  starting  at  the  celling.  He 
looks  toward  the  door  when  he 
hears  It  open,  rises  In  bed  as 
Bolle  enters. 

88.  TRACK  SHOT  BOLLE 

As  he  goes  over  to  the  bed  and 
sits  down  next  to  the  boy. 
Nothing  Is  said  for  a moment. 
Bolle  finally  clears  his  throat, 
holds  up  his  right  hand. 

BOLIE 

Pulled  a rock,  Henry.  Threw  a 
punch  before  I should  have. 
Hit  the  wall.  Busted  my 
knuckles.  I went  In  with  half 
my  artillery  gone. 

The  little  boy  nods  through  the 
darkness,  reaches  over  and 
touches  the  fighter’s  shoulder. 

HENRY 

You  looked  like  a tiger  even 
so.  You  looked  like  a real 
tiger.  I was  proud  of  you._  I 
was  real  proud. 

Bolle  leans  over  and  kisses  the 
boy,  gets  off  the  bed  and  starts 
out,  opens  the  door. 

89.  REVERSE  ANGLE 
LOOKING  TOWARD  BOY 
IN  BED 

HENRY 

Bolle? 

BOLIE 

You  go  to  sleep.  Tomorrow 


we’ll  go  to  the  hockey  game 
and  we’ll  get  some  hot  dogs  in 
the  park,  you  and  me. 

HENRY 

Sure  thing,  Bolle.  That’ll  be 
nice. 

Another  pause  as  Bolle  is  about 
to  start  out  the  door. 

HENRY 

Bolle? 

Bolle  stops,  turns  to  him. 

HENRY 

I ain’t  gonna  make  no  more 
wishes,  Bolle.  I’m  too  old  for 
wishes.  There  ain’t  no  such 
thing  as  magic.  Is  there? 

90.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOLIE 

Silhouetted  in  the  darkness  of 
the  room  from  the  lights  of 
outside. 

BOLIE 
(very  softly) 

I guess  net,  Henry.  Or 
maybe . . . maybe  there  is 
magic.  Maybe  there’s  wishes 
too.  I guess  the  trouble  Is . . . 

I guess  the  trouble  Is,  there’s 
not  enough  people  around  to 
believe.  Good  night,  boy. 

HENRY 

Good  nlgfit,  Bolle. 

He  quietly  goes  out  of  the  room 
and  closes  the  door,  as  the 
CAMERA  PANS  OVER  TO  THE 
WINDOW  and  outdoors  Into  the 
night  to  beg:-n  a SLOW  PAN  UP 
TO  THE  STARS. 

NARRATOR’S  VOICE 

Mr.  Bolle  Jackson,  a hundred 
and  eighty- three  pounds,  who 
left  a second  chance  lying  in  a 
heap  on  a rosin-spattered 
canvas  at  St.  Nick’s  arena. 

Mr.  Bolle  Jackson,  who 
shares  the  most  common 
ailment  of  all  men . . . the 
strange  and  perverse 
dlslncllneitlon  to  believe  In  a 
miracle.  The  kind  of  miracle 
to  come  f]’om  the  mind  of  a 
little  boy,  perhaps  only  to  be 
found ...  In  The  Twilight 
Zone. 

- FADE  TO  BLACK: 
THE  END  iS  , 


100 


OGHT 


November’s 


• Just  in  time  tor  Hailoween:  two  good 
old-fashioned  hair-raisers:  Wishing  Will  Make  It 
So,  a trick  (and  a treat)  from  Melissa  Mia  Hall, 
and  Again,  an  exercise  in  all-out  horror  from 
Ramsey  Campbell  whose  title— when  you  learn 
what  it  signifies— is  perhaps  the  most  horrifying 
thing  of  all. 

• Round  and  round  they  go.  Those  conveyor 
belts  for  baggage  are  a familiar  sight  at  airports. 
They’re  also— as  Thomas  Disch  demonstrates  in 
Carousel— a lot  like  life  . . . and  a lot  like  death. 


• Tanith  Lee  returns  in  B^ause  Our  Skins  are 
Finer— and  does  the  impossible:  she  makes  a 
hauntingly  beautiful  fantasy  out  of  one  of  this 
planet’s  ugliest  events,  the  annual  Canadian  seal 
hunt. 


• John  Carpenter  won— and  won  big— when  his 
Halloween  became,  for  its  cost,  the  most 
successful  independent  film  in  history.  Now,  with 
his  first  feature  film,  director  Rick  Rosenthal  is 
going  to  try  to  duplicate  the  feat— using 
Halloween  stars  Jamie  Lee  Curtis  and  Donald 
Pleasence— in  Halloween  2,  whose  story  begins 
where  the  first  one  leaves  off.  Robert  Martin 
gives  TZ  readers  a preview  of  the  new  film,  just 
so  you’ll  known  when  to  hide  your  eyes. 

• Is  John  Saul  for  real?  Meet  the  controversial 
(but  oh-so-popular)  author  of  Suffer  the  Children, 
Comes  the  Blind  Fury,  and  the  recent  When  the 
Wind  Blows  — all  national  bestsellers,  and  all  full 
of  scenes  to  curl  your  toenails— in  November’s  TZ 
Interview. 


• The  ghost  goes  east.  Gordon  Linzner,  who  so 

memorably  recreated  the  spirits  of  ancient  J apan 
in  The  Inn  of  the  Dove,  tells  a haunting  tale  of  the 
samurai  wars  in  Moshigawa’s  Homecoming. 

• Behind  the  door.  Juleen  Brantingham  offers 
readers  a glimpse  into  The  Old  Man’s  Room, 
which  looks,  from  the  outside,  like  an  ordinary 
shabby  apartment,  but  which  proves  to  be  a 
hallway  to  the  Twilight  Zone, 

• Can  tear  be  tun?  Dr.  Van  Helsing  makes  his 
valedictory  appearance  with  an  illustrated  report 
on  Pleasures  of  the  Ghost  Story. 

• Remember  your  favorite  Tvnlight  Zone 
episodes— and  brush  up  on  your  trivia  IQ— in 
Part  Eight  of  Marc  Scott  Zicree’s  Show-by-Show 
Guide  to  TV’s  Twilight  Zone. 

• And  enjoy  a complete  episode  with  our  reprint  of 
Death’s  Head  Revisited —the  original  Rod 
Serling  script,  illustrated  with  scenes  from  the 
show. 


• The  man  looks  like  a salesman— and  he  is.  “I 

sell  death,”  he  tells  Harry.  “I’m  a professional 
killer.”  But  the  man  has  a secret  far  more  shocking 
than  that— as  Harry  learns  in  The  Specialist  by 
Clark  Howard. 


• Camping  alone  in  the  North  Woods,  you  come 
across  what  looks  like  a squirrel.  Only  it  isn’t  a 
normal  squirrel,  because  instead  of  eating  the  nuts 
inside  your  plastic  bag,  it  eats  the  bag  I In  fact,  it’s 
no  ordinary  creature  you’ve  got  here— it’s 
Tweedlioop,  in  an  unforgettable  new  story  from 
Stanley  Schmidt.